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ON SANDPEEP ISLAND 


Sap {Y RIVERSIDE BOOKSHELF el 
—. eee Me Re ese cy TF gh CNS 2 


THE STORY OF A 
BAD BOY 


BY 


THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 


ILLUSTRATED BY 


HAROLD M. BRETT 





BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
The Riverside Press Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT. 1869 AND 1897, BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 


\ 


COPYRIGHT, I9II, BY MARY ELIZABETH ALDRICH 


COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE 
THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM 


Che Riverside Press 
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 


II. 
II. 
IV. 


VI. 
VII. 
VIII. 
IX. 
X. 
XI. 
XIT. 
XIII. 
XIV. 
XV. 
XVI. 
XVII. 


XVIII 


CONTENTS 


. IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF 

IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 
ON BOARD THE TYPHOON 

RIVERMOUTH 


. THE NuTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTER 
FAMILY 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 

ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 

THE ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH 

I BECOME AN R.M.C. 

I FIGHT CONWAY 

ALL ABOUT GYPSY 

WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH 

THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 
THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP 
IN WHICH SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 


How WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTH- 
IANS 


. A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO 


ee 
NA INO arses 


if 
) 
12 


22 


35 
48 
70 
85 
99 
109 
121 
130 
138 
150 
172 


187 


202 


221 


iv 
XIX. 


XX. 


XXI. 
XXII. 


CONTENTS 


I BECOME A BLIGHTED BEING 239 
IN WHICH I PROVE MYSELF TO BE THE 

GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 247 
IN WHICH I LEAVE RIVERMOUTH 267 
EXEUNT OMNES 274 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


On SANDPEEP ISLAND Frontisprece 
SHE STRUCK AT AN IMAGINARY ‘“‘ MEAN WHITE”’ 8 


TO SIT ON A STIFF-BACKED CHAIR AND LISTEN FOR 
HOURS TOGETHER 34 


SHOUTING LIKE MAD CREATURES 76 
FACE TO FACE, LIKE DAVID AND THE PHILISTINE I14 
THE THRILLING MOMENT HAD NOW ARRIVED 144 
SO HE DRIFTED AWAY 162 


NOTES WERE HIDDEN IN THE TRUNKS OF DECAYED 
TREES 224 








THE STORY OF A 
BAD BOY 


CHAPTER I 
IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF 


Tuis is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such 
a very bad, but a pretty bad boy; and I ought 
to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy 
myself. 

Lest the title should mislead the reader, I 
hasten to assure him here that I have no dark 
confessions to make. I call my story the story 
of a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from 
those faultless young gentlemen who generally 
figure in narratives of this kind, and partly be- 
cause I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully 
say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with 
fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite. I didn’t 


2 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


want to be an angel and with the angels stand; 
I didn’t think the missionary tracts presented 
to me by the Reverend Wibird Hawkins were 
half so nice as ‘‘ Robinson Crusoe’’; and I didn’t 
send my little pocket-money to the natives of 
the Feejee Islands, but spent it royally in pep- 
permint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was 
a real human boy, such as you may meet any- 
where in New England, and no more like the 
impossible boy in a story-book than a sound 
orange is like one that has been sucked dry. But 
let us begin at the beginning. 

Whenever a new scholar came to our school, 
[ used to confront him at recess with the fol- 
lowing words: ‘‘My name’s Tom Bailey; what’s 
your name?”’ If the name struck me favorably, 
I shook hands with the new pupil cordially; but 
if it didn’t, I would turn on my heel, for I was 
particular on this point. Such names as Higgins, 
Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to 
my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and 
the like, were passwords to my confidence and 
esteem. 

Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather 
elderly boys by this time — lawyers, merchants, 
sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not? Phil 
Adams (a special good name that Adams) is 


I INTRODUCE MYSELF c 


consul at Shanghai, where I picture him to my- 
self with his head closely shaved — he never had 
too much hair — and a long pigtail hanging down 
behind. He is married, I hear; and I hope he 
and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very 
happy together, sitting cross-legged over their 
diminutive cups of tea in a sky-blue tower hung 
with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he is 
henceforth a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing 
but broken China. Whitcomb is a judge, sedate 
and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge 
of that remarkable nose which, in former days, 
was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that 
the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. 
Just to think of little Pepper Whitcomb being a 
judge! What would he do to me now, I wonder, 
if I were to sing out ‘‘Pepper!’’ some day in 
court? Fred Langdon is in California, in the 
native-wine business—he used to make the 
best licorice-water J ever tasted! Binny Wallace 
sleeps in the Old South Burying-Ground; and 
Jack Harris, too, is dead — Harris, who com- 
manded us boys, of old, in the famous snow-ball 
battles of Slatter’s Hill. Was it yesterday I saw 
him at the head of his regiment on its way to 
join the shattered Army of the Potomac? Not 
yesterday, but six years ago. 1t was at the bat- 


4 THE STORY ‘OF CA\ BAD BOW 


tle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, 
that never drew rein until he had dashed into 
the Rebel battery! So they found him — lying 
across the enemy’s guns. 

How we have parted, and wandered, and mar- 
ried, and died! I wonder what has become of 
all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar 
School at Rivermouth when I was a youngster? 


‘All, all are gone, the old familiar faces!” 


It is with no ungentle hand I summon them 
back, for a moment, from that Past which has 
closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly 
they live again in my memory! Happy, magical 
Past, in whose fairy atmosphere even Conway, 
mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with 
a sort of dreamy glory encircling his bright red 
hair! 

With the old school formula I commence these 
sketches of my boyhood. My name is Tom 
Bailey; what is yours, gentle reader? I take for 
granted it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and 
that we shall get on famously together, and be 
capital friends forever. 





CHAPTER: II 
IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 


I was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a 
chance to become very well acquainted with that 
pretty New England town, my parents removed 
to New Orleans, where my father invested his 
money so securely in the banking business that 
he was never able to get more than half of it out 
again. But of this hereafter. 

I was only eighteen months old at the time of 
the removal, and it didn’t make much difference 
to me where I was, because I was so small; but 
several years later, when my father proposed to 
take me North to be educated, I had my own 
peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kicked 
over the little negro boy who happened to be 
standing by me at the moment, and, stamping 


6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


my foot violently on the floor of the piazza, de: 
clared that I would not be taken away to live 
among a lot of Yankees! 

You see I was what is called ‘‘'a Northern man 
with Southern principles.”’ I had no recollection 
of New England: my earliest memories were con- 
nected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old 
negro nurse, and with the great ill-kept garden 
in the centre of which stood our house — a white- 
washed stone house it was, with wide verandas — 
shut out from the street by lines of orange, fig, 
and magnolia trees. I knew I was born at the 
North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I 
looked upon the misfortune as something so 
shrouded by time and distance that maybe no- 
body remembered it. I never told my school- 
mates I was a Yankee, because they talked about 
the Yankees in such a scornful way it made me 
feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in 
Louisiana, or at least in one of the Border States. 
And this impression was strengthened by Aunt 
Chloe, who said, ‘dar wasn’t no gentl’men in 
the Norf no way,” and on one occasion terrified 
me beyond measure by declaring that, “if any 
of dem mean whites tried to git her away from 
marster, she was jes’ gwine to knock ’em on de 
head wid a gourd 


1’? 


I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 7 


The way this poor creature’s eyes flashed, and 
the tragic air with which she struck at.an imag- 
inary ‘“‘mean white,’ are among the most vivid 
things in my memory of those days. 

To be frank, my idea of the North was about 
as accurate as that entertained by the well- 
educated Englishmen of the present day concern- 
ing America. I supposed the inhabitants were 
divided into two classes — Indians and white peo- 
ple; that the Indians occasionally dashed down 
on New York, and scalped any woman or child 
(giving the preference to children) whom they 
caught lingering in the outskirts after night- 
fall; that the white men were either hunters 
or schoolmasters, and that it was winter pretty 
much all the year round. The prevailing style 
of architecture I took to be log cabins. 

With this delightful picture of Northern civ- 
ilization in my eye, the reader will easily under- 
stand my terror at the bare thought of being 
transported to Rivermouth to school, and possi- 
bly will forgive me for kicking over little black 
Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, when 
my father announced his determination to me. 
As for kicking little Sam — I always did that, 
more or less gently, when anything went wrong 
with me. 


8 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


My father was greatly perplexed and troubled 
by this unusually violent outbreak, and especially 
by the real consternation which he saw writ- 
ten in every line of my countenance. As little 
black Sam picked himself up, my father took 
my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the 
library. 

I can see him .now as he leaned back in the 
bamboo chair and questioned me. He appeared 
strangely agitated on learning the nature of my 
objections to going North, and proceeded at 
once to knock down all my pine-log houses, and 
scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had 
populated the greater portion of the Eastern and 
Middle States. 

‘Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain 
with such silly stories?’’ asked my father, wiping 
the tears from his eyes. 

‘‘Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.”’ 

“And you really thought your grandfather 
wore a blanket embroidered with beads, and or- 
namented his leggins with the scalps of his ene- 
mies?”’ 

‘Well, sir, I didn’t think that exactly.” 

“Didn’t think that exactly? Tom, you will be 
the death of me.” 

He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when 





SHE STRUCK AT AN IMAGINARY ‘‘MEAN WHITE”’ 





i << 


5 





i Lor 





I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 9 


he looked up, he seemed to have been suffering 
acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I 
did not clearly understand what I had said or 
done to cause him to feel so badly. Perhaps I 
had hurt his feelings by thinking it even pos- 
sible that Grandfather Nutter was an Indian 
warrior. 

My father devoted that evening and several 
subsequent evenings to giving me a clear and suc- 
cinct account of New England; its early strug- 
gles, its progress, and its present condition — 
faint and confused glimmerings of all which I had 
obtained at school, where history had never been 
a favorite pursuit of mine. 

I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the 
contrary, the proposed journey to a new world 
full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promised 
myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I 
was not entirely at rest in my mind touching the 
savages, and secretly resolved to go on board the 
ship — the journey was to be made by sea — 
with a certain little brass pistol in my trousers- 
pocket, in case of any difficulty with the tribes 
when we landed at Boston. 

I couldn’t get the Indian out of my head. Only 
a short time previously the Cherokees — or was 
it the Comanches? — had been removed from 


1o”)6 OCU THE STORY OF A BADSEGs 


their hunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the 
wilds of the Southwest the red men were still a 
source of terror to the border settlers. ‘‘ Trouble 
with the Indians’”’ was the staple news from 
Florida published in the New Orleans papers. 
We were constantly hearing of travellers being 
attacked and murdered in the interior of that 
State. If these things were done in Florida, why 
not in Massachusetts? 

Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was 
eager to be off. My impatience was increased by 
the fact that my father had purchased for me a 
fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to River- 
mouth a fortnight previous to the date set for 
our own departure — for both my parents were 
to accompany me. The pony (which nearly 
kicked me out of bed one night in a dream), and 
my father’s promise that he and my mother 
would come to Rivermouth every other summer, 
completely resigned me to the situation. The 
pony’s name was Gitana, which is the Spanish 
for gypsy; so I always called her — she was a 
lady pony — Gypsy. 

At length the time came to leave the vine- 
covered mansion among the orange-trees, to say 
good-bye to little black Sam (I am convinced he 
was heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part 


I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS 11 


with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in the confusion 
of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and 
then buried her face in the bright bandana tur- 
ban which she had mounted that morning in 
honor of our departure. 

I fancy them standing by the open garden 
gate; the tears are rolling down Aunt Chloe’s 
cheeks; Sam’s six front teeth are glistening like 
pearls; I wave my hand to him manfully, then 
I call out “‘good-bye”’ in a muffled voice to Aunt 
Chloe; they and the old home fade away. I am 
never to see them again! 





CHAPTER III 
ON BOARD THE TYPHOON 


I po not remember much about the voyage to 
Boston, for after the first few hours at sea I was 
dreadfully unwell. 

The name of our ship was the “A No. 1, fast- 
sailing packet Typhoon.” I learned afterwards 
that she sailed fast only in the newspaper adver- 
tisements. My father owned one quarter of the 
Typhoon, and that is why we happened to go in 
her. I tried to guess which quarter of the ship 
he owned, and finally concluded it must be the 
hind quarter — the cabin, in which we had the 
cosiest of staterooms, with one round window in 
the roof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up 
against the wall to sleep in. 

There was a good deal of confusion on deck 


ON BOARD THE TYPHOON 13 


while we were getting under way. The captain 
shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay 
any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, 
and grew so red in the face that he reminded me 
of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candle 
inside. He swore right and left at the sailors 
without the slightest regard for their feelings. 
They didn’t mind it a bit, however, but went on 
singing, 
‘“‘Heave ho! 
With the rum below, 
And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!” 

I will not be positive about “the Spanish Main,”’ 
but it was hurrah for something O. I considered 
them very jolly fellows, and so, indeed, they 
were. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck 
my fancy —a thick-set, jovial man, about fifty 
years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a fringe 
of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As 
he took off his tarpaulin, I observed that the top 
of his head was quite smooth and flat, as if some- 
body had sat down on him when he was very 
young. 

There was something noticeably hearty in this 
man’s bronzed face, a heartiness that seemed to 
extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. But 
what completely won my good-will was a picture 


14 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


of enviable loveliness painted on his left arm. It 
was the head of a woman with the body of a fish. 
Her flowing hair was of livid green, and she held 
a pink comb in one hand. I never saw anything 
so beautiful. I determined to know that man. I 
think I would have given my brass pistol to have 
had such a picture painted on my arm. 

While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat 
wheezy steam-tug, with the word AJAX in star- 
ing black letters on the paddle-box, came puffing 
up alongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously 
small and conceited, compared with our stately 
ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. 
In a few minutes we were lashed to the little 
monster, which gave a snort and a shriek, and 
commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) 
with the greatest ease. 

I once saw an ant running away with a piece 
of cheese eight or ten times larger than itself. 
I could not help thinking of it, when I found 
the chubby, smoky-nosed tugboat towing the 
Typhocn out into the Mississippi River. 

In the middle of the stream we swung round, 
the current caught us, and away we flew like a 
great winged bird. Only it didn’t seem as if 
we were moving. The shore, with the countless 
steamboats, the tangled rigging of the ships, and 


ON BOARD THE TYPHOON | 15 


the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be 
gliding away from us. 

It was grand sport to stand on the quarter- 
deck and watch all this. Before long there was 
nothing to be seen on either side but stretches of 
low swampy land, covered with stunted cypress- 
trees, from which drooped delicate streamers of 
Spanish moss —a fine place for alligators and 
Congo snakes. Here and there we passed a yel- 
low sand-bar, and here and there a snag lifted 
its nose out of the water like a shark. 

‘“‘This is your last chance to see the city, Tom,”’ 
said my father, as we swept round a bend of the 
river. 

I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a 
colorless mass of something in the distance, and 
the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon which 
the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger 
than the top of old Aunt Chloe’s thimble. 

What do I remember next? — the gray sky 
and the fretful blue waters of the Gulf. The 
steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers 
and gone panting away with a derisive scream, 
as much as to say, ‘‘ I’ve done my duty, now look 
out for yourself, old Typhoon!”’ 

The ship seemed quite proud of being left to 
take care of itself, and, with its huge white sails 


16 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey. I had 
been standing by my father near the wheel-house 
all this while, observing things with that nicety 
of perception which belongs only to children; but 
now the dew began falling, and we went below 
to have supper. 

The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of cold 
chicken, looked very nice; yet somehow I had 
no appetite. There was a general smell of tar 
about everything. Then the ship gave sudden 
lurches that made it a matter of uncertainty 
whether one was going to put his fork to his 
mouth or into his eye. The tumblers and wine- 
glasses, stuck in a rack over the table, kept 
clinking and clinking; and the cabin lamp, sus- 
pended by four gilt chains from the ceiling, 
swayed to and fro crazily. Now the floor seemed 
to rise, and now it seemed to sink under one’s 
feet like a feather-bed. 

There were not more than a dozen passengers 
on board, including ourselves; and all of these, 
excepting a bald-headed old gentleman — a re- 
tired sea-captain — disappeared into their state- 
rooms at an early hour of the evening. 

After supper was cleared away, my father and 
the elderly gentleman, whose name was Captain 
Truck, played at checkers; and I amused myself 


ON BOARD THE TYPHOON 17 


for a while by watching the trouble they had in 
keeping the men in the proper places. Just at 
the most exciting point of the game, the ship 
would careen, and down would go the white 
checkers pell-mell among the black. Then my 
father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow 
very angry, and vow that he would have won 
the game in a move or two more, if the con- 
founded old chicken-coop — that’s what he called 
the ship — hadn’t lurched. 

‘“‘[ —I think I will go to bed now, please,” 
I said, laying my hand on my father’s knee, and 
feeling exceedingly queer. 

It was high time, for the Typhoon was plung- 
ing about in the most alarming fashion. I was 
speedily tucked away in the upper berth, where 
I felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were 
placed on a narrow shelf at my feet, and it was 
a great comfort to me to know that my pistol 
was so handy, for I made no doubt we should 
fall in with pirates before many hours. This is 
the last thing I remember with any distinctness. 
At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were 
struck by a gale which never left us until we 
came in sight of the Massachusetts coast. 

For days and days I had no sensible idea of 
what was going on around me. That we were 


18 THE STORY, OF A BADGE 


being hurled somewhere upside-down, and that 
I didn’t like it, was about all I knew. I have, 
indeed, a vague impression that my father used 
to climb up to the berth and call me his “‘Ancient 
Mariner,’ bidding me cheer up. But the An- 
cient Mariner was far from cheering up, if I 
recollect rightly; and I don’t believe that ven- 
erable navigator would have cared much if it 
had been announced to him, through a speaking- 


é6é 


trumpet, that ‘‘a low, black, suspicious craft, 


with raking masts, was rapidly bearing down 
upon us!”’ 

In fact, one morning, I thought that such was 
the case, for bang! went the big cannon I had 
noticed in the bow of the ship when we came on 
board, and which had suggested to me the idea 
of pirates. Bang! went the gun again in a few 
seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at my 
trousers-pocket! But the Typhoon was only 
saluting Cape Cod — the first land sighted by 
vessels approaching the coast from a southerly 
direction. 

The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea- 
sickness passed away as rapidly as it came. I 
was all right now, ‘‘only a little shaky in my 
timbers and a little blue about the gills,” as 
Captain Truck remarked to my mother, who, 


ON BOARD THE TYPHOON 19 


like myself, had been confined to the stateroom 
during the passage. 

At Cape Cod the wind parted company with 
us without saying as much as “Excuse me’’; so 
we were nearly two days in making the run which 
in favorable weather is usually accomplished in 
seven hours. That’s what the pilot said. 

I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost 
no time in cultivating the acquaintance of the 
sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm. I 
found him in the forecastle — a sort of cellar in 
the front part of the vessel. He was an agreeable 
sailor, as I had expected, and we became the best 
of friends in five minutes. 

He had been all over the world two or three 
times, and knew no end of stories. According 
to his own account, he must have been ship- 
wrecked at least twice a year ever since his 
birth. He had served under Decatur when that 
gallant officer peppered the Algerines and made 
them promise not to sell their prisoners of war 
into slavery; he had worked a gun at the bom- 
bardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, 
and he had been on Alexander Selkirk’s Island 
more than once. There were very few things he 
hadn’t done in a seafaring way. 

‘“‘T suppose, sir,” I remarked, “‘that your name 
isn’t Typhoon?” 


20 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


“‘Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name’s Benja- 
min Watson, of Nantucket. But I’m a true blue 
Typhooner,”’ he added, which increased my re- 
spect for him; I don’t know why, and I didn't 
know then whether Typhoon was the name of a 
vegetable or a profession. 

Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I dis- 
closed to him that my name was Tom Bailey, 
upon which he said he was very glad to hear it. 

When we got more intimate, I discovered that 
Sailor Ben, as he wished me to call him, was a 
perfect walking picture-book. He had two an- 
chors, a star, and a frigate in full sail on his right 
arm; a pair of lovely blue hands clasped on his 
breast, and I’ve no doubt that other parts of 
his body were illustrated in the same agreeable 
manner. I imagine he was fond of drawings, and 
took this means of gratifying his artistic taste. 
It was certainly very ingenious and convenient. 
A portfolio might be misplaced, or dropped over- 
board; but Sailor Ben had his pictures wher- 
ever he went, just as that eminent person in the 
poem 


“With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes’? — 


was accompanied by music on all occasions. 
The two hands on his breast, he informed me, 


ON BOARD THE TYPHOON — 21r 


were a tribute to the memory of a dead mess- 
mate from whom he had parted years ago — 
and surely a more touching tribute was never 
engraved on a tombstone. This caused mé to 
think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I 
told him I should take it as a great favor indeed 
if he would paint a pink hand and a black hand 
on my chest. He said the colors were pricked 
into the skin with needles, and that the operation 
was somewhat painful. I assured him, in an 
off-hand manner, that I didn’t mind pain, and 
begged him to set to work at once. 

The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably 
not a little vain of his skill, took me into the 
forecastle, and was on the point of complying 
with my request, when my father happened to 
look down the gangway —a circumstance that 
rather interfered with the decorative art. 

I didn’t have another opportunity of confer- 
ring alone with Sailor Ben, for the next morning, 
bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola 
of the Boston State House. 





CHAPTER IV 
RIVERMOUTH 


It was a beautiful May morning when the Ty- 
phoon hauled up at Long Wharf. Whether the 
Indians were not early risers, or whether they 
were away just then on a war-path, I couldn’t 
determine; but they did not appear in any great 
force — in fact, did not appear at all. 

In the remarkable geography which I never 
hurt myself with studying at New Orleans, was 
a picture representing the landing of the Pilgrim 
Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fathers, in 
rather odd hats and coats, are seen approaching 
the savages; the savages, in no coats or hats 
to speak of, are evidently undecided whether to 
shake hands with the Pilgrim Fathers or to make 
one grand rush and scalp the entire party. Now 
this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that 
in spite of all my father had said, I was prepared 


RIVERMOUTH 23 


for some such greeting from the aborigines. 
Nevertheless, I was not sorry to have my expec- 
tations unfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the 
Pilgrim Fathers, I often used to wonder why 
there was no mention made of the Pilgrim 
Mothers. 

While our trunks were being hoisted from the 
hold of the ship, I mounted on the roof of the 
cabin, and took a critical view of Boston. As 
we came up the harbor, I had noticed that the 
houses were huddled together on an immense 
hill, at the top of which was a large building, the 
State House, towering proudly above the rest, 
like an amiable mother-hen surrounded by her 
brood of many-colored chickens. A closer in- 
spection did not impress me very favorably. 
The city was not nearly so imposing as New 
Orleans, which stretches out for miles and 
miles, in the shape of a crescent, along the banks 
of the majestic river. 

I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of 
houses, rising above one another in irregular 
tiers, and was glad my father did not propose 
to remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the 
rail in this mood, a measly-looking little boy 
with no shoes said that if I would come down on 
the wharf he’d lick me for two cents — not an 


24 THE STORY OR A) BADI BG, 


exorbitant price. But I didn’t go down. | 
climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. 
This, as I was rejoiced to observe, so exasper- 
ated him that he stood on his head on a pile of 
boards, in order to pacify himself. 

The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. 
After a late breakfast on board the Typhoon, 
our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, 
and ourselves stowed away in a coach, which 
must have turned at least one hundred corners 
before it set us down at the railway station. 

In less time than it takes to tell it, we were 
shooting across the country at a fearful rate — 
now clattering over a bridge, now screaming 
through a tunnel; here we cut a flourishing vil- 
lage in two, like a knife, and here we dived 
into the shadow of a pine forest. Sometimes we 
glided along the edge of the ocean, and could 
see the sails of ships twinkling like bits of silver 
against the horizon; sometimes we dashed across 
rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle 
were loafing. It was fun to scare the lazy-looking 
cows that lay round in groups under the newly 
budded trees near the railroad track. 

We did not pause at any of the little brown 
stations on the route (they looked just like 
evergrown black-walnut clocks), though at every 


RIVERMOUTH 25 


one of them a man popped out as if he were 
worked by machinery, and waved a red flag, and 
appeared as though he would like to have us 
stop. But we were an express train, and made 
no stoppages, excepting once or twice to give 
the engine a drink. ‘ 

g It is strange how the memory clings to some 
things. It is over twenty years since I took that 
first ride to Rivermouth, and yet, oddly enough, 
I remember as if it were yesterday, that, as we 
passed slowly through the village of Hampton, 
we saw two boys fighting behind a red barn. 
There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked 
as if he had commenced to unravel, barking him- 
self all up into a knot with excitement. We 
had only a hurried glimpse of the battle — long 
enough, however, to see that the combatants 
were equally matched and very much in earnest. 
I am ashamed to say how many times since I 
have speculated as to which boy got licked. 
Maybe both the small rascals are dead now 
(not in consequence of the set-to, let us hope), 
or maybe they are married, and have pugna- 
cious urchins of their own; yet to this day I 
sometimes find myself wondering how that fight 
turned out. 

We had been riding perhaps two hours and a 


26 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


half, when we shot by a tall factory with a 
chimney resembling a church-steeple; then the 
locomotive gave a scream, the engineer rang his 
bell, and we plunged into the twilight of a long 
wooden building, open at both ends. Here we 
stopped, and the conductor, thrusting his head 
in at the car door, cried out, ‘Passengers for 
Rivermouth!”’ 

At last we had reached our journey’s end. 
On the platform my father shook hands with 
a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was 
very serene and rosy. He had on a white hat 
and a long swallow-tailed coat, the collar of 
which came clear up above his ears. He didn’t 
look unlike a Pilgrim Father. This, of course, 
was Grandfather Nutter, at whose house I was 
born. My mother kissed him a great many times; 
and I was glad to see him myself, though I nat- 
urally did not feel very intimate with a person 
whom [I had not seen since I was eighteen months 
old. 

While we were getting into the double-seated 
wagon which Grandfather Nutter had provided, 
I took the opportunity of asking after the health 
of the pony. The pony had arrived all right 
ten days before, and was in the. stable at home 
quite anxious to see me. 


RIVERMOUTH 27 


As we drove through the quiet old town, I 
thought Rivermouth the prettiest place in the 
world; and I think so still. The streets are long 
and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, 
whose drooping branches, interlacing here and 
there, span the avenues with arches graceful 
enough to be the handiwork of fairies. Many 
of the houses have small flower-gardens in 
front, gay in the season with china-asters, and 
are substantially built, with massive chimney- 
stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful river 
goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and 
twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties it- 
self into the sea. 

The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can 
sail directly up to the wharves and drop anchor. 
Only they don’t. Years ago it was a famous sea- 
port. Princely fortunes were made in the West 
India trade; and in 1812, when we were at war 
with Great Britain, any number of privateers 
were fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the 
merchant vessels of the enemy. Certain people 
grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great 
many of ‘‘ the first families’’ of to-day do not care 
to trace their pedigree back to the time when 
their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda 
Jane, twenty-four guns. Well, well! 


28 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Com- 
merce drifted into other ports. The phantom 
fleet sailed off one day, and never came back 
again. The crazy old warehouses are empty; 
and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles of 
the crumbling wharves, where the sunshine lies 
lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor that 
haunts the place —the ghost of the old dead 
West India trade! 

During our ride from the station, I was struck, 
of course, only by the general neatness of the 
houses and the beauty of the elm-trees lining 
the streets. I describe Rivermouth now as I 
came to know it afterwards. 

Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my 
day there existed a tradition among the boys 
that it was here Christopher Columbus made his 
first landing on this continent. I remember hav- 
ing the exact spot pointed out to me by Pepper 
Whitcomb! One thing is certain, Captain John 
Smith, who afterwards, according to their legend, 
married Pocahontas — whereby he got Powhatan 
for a father-in-law — explored the river in 1614, 
and was much charmed by the beauty of River- 
mouth, which at that time was covered with wild 
strawberry-vines. 

Rivermouth figures LE in all the 


RIVERMOUTH 29 


colonial histories. Every other house in the place 
has its tradition more or less grim and entertain- 
ing. If ghosts could flourish anywhere, there are 
certain streets in Rivermouth that would be full 
of them. I don’t know of a town with so many 
old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front 
of the one which the Oldest Inhabitant is always 
sure to point out to the curious stranger. 

It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel 
roof and deep-set window-frames. Over the win- 
dows and doors there used to be heavy carv- 
ings — oak-leaves and acorns, and angels’ heads 
with wings spreading from the ears, oddly jum- 
bled together; but these ornaments and other 
outward signs of grandeur have long since dis- 
appeared. A peculiar interest attaches itself to 
this house, not because of its age, for it has 
not been standing quite a century; nor on ac- 
count of its architecture, which is not striking — 
but because of the illustrious men who at various 
periods have occupied its spacious chambers. 

In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the 
left side of the entrance stood a high post, from 
which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. 
The landlord was a stanch loyalist — that is to 
say, he believed in the king, and when the over- 
taxed colonies determined to throw off the British 


30 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


yoke, the adherents to the Crown held private 
meetings in one of the back rooms of the tavern. 
This irritated the rebels, as they were called; and 
one night they made an attack on the Earl of 
Halifax, tore down the sign-board, broke in the 
window-sashes, and gave the landlord hardly 
time to make himself invisible over a fence in 
the rear. 

For several months the shattered tavern re- 
mained deserted. At last the exiled innkeeper, 
on promising to do better, was allowed to re- 
turn; a new sign, bearing the name of William 
Pitt, the friend of America, swung proudly from 
the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. 
Here it was that the mail-coach from Boston 
twice a week, for many a year, set down its load 
of travellers and gossip. For some of the details 
in this sketch, I am indebted to a recently pub- 
lished chronicle of those times. 

It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the 
harbor of Rivermouth, and eight of the principal 
officers, in white uniforms trimmed with gold 
lace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of 
the William Pitt. Who is this young and hand- 
some officer now entering the door of the tav- 
ern? It is no less a personage than the Marquis 
Lafayette, who has come all the way from Proyi- 


RIVERMOUTH 31 


dence to visit the French gentlemen boarding 
there. What a gallant-looking cavalier he is, 
with his quick eyes and coal-black hair! Forty 
years later he visited the spot again; his locks 
were gray and his step was feeble, but his heart 
held its young love for Liberty. 

Who is this finely dressed traveller alighting 
from his coach-and-four, attended by servants 
in livery? Do you know that sounding name, 

written in big valorous letters on the Declaration 
of Independence — written as if by the hand of 
a giant? Can you not see it now? — JOHN HAN- 
cock. This is he. 

Three young men, with their valet, are stand- 
ing on the doorstep of the William Pitt, bowing 
politely, and inquiring in the most courteous 
terms in the world if they can be accommodated. 
It is the time of the French Revolution, and these 
are three sons of the Duke of Orleans — Louis 
Philippe and his two brothers. Louis Philippe 
never forgot his visit to Rivermouth. Years 
afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of 
France, he asked an American lady, who chanced 
to be at his court, if the pleasant old mansion 
were still standing. 

But a greater and a better man than the king 
of the French has honored this roof. Here, in 


32 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


1789, came George Washington, the President of 
the United States, to pay his final complimen- 
tary visit to the State dignitaries. The wainscoted 
chamber where he slept, and the dining-hall 
where he entertained his guests, have a certain 
dignity and sanctity which even the present Irish 
tenants cannot wholly destroy. 

During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, 
an ancient lady, Dame Jocelyn by name, lived 
in one of the upper rooms of this notable build- 
ing. She was a dashing young belle at the time 
of Washington’s first visit to the town, and must 
have been exceedingly coquettish and pretty, 
judging from a certain portrait on ivory still 
in the possession of the family. According to 
Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted with 
her just a little bit—in what a stately and 
highly finished manner can be imagined. 

There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame 
hanging over the mantelpiece in this room. The 
glass was cracked and the quicksilver rubbed off 
or discolored in many places. When it reflected 
your face you had the singular pleasure of not 
recognizing yourself. It gave your features the 
appearance of having been run through a mince- 
meat machine. But what rendered the looking- 
glass a thing of enchantment to me was a faded 


RIVERMOUTH 33 


green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped 
from the top of the tarnished gilt mouldings. 
This feather Washington took from the plume 
of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his 
own hand to the worshipful Mistress Jocelyn 
the day he left Rivermouth forever. I wish I 
could describe the mincing genteel air, and the 
ill-concealed self-complacency, with which the 
dear old lady related the incident. 

Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed 
up the rickety staircase to that dingy room, 
which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to 
sit on a stiff-backed chair and listen for hours 
together to Dame Jocelyn’s stories of the olden 
time. How she would prattle! She was bed- 
ridden — poor creature! — and had not been out 
of the chamber for fourteen years. Meanwhile 
the world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The 
changes that had taken place under her very 
nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old 
gentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had 
neglected to take away with the rest of its odd 
traps. She had no patience with new-fangled 
notions. The old ways and the old times were 
good enough for her. She had never seen a steam- 
engine, though she had heard ‘‘the dratted thing”’ 
screech in the distance. In her day, when gentle- 


34. THE STORY OF ABAD BOw 


folk travelled, they went in their own coaches, 
She didn’t see how respectable people could 
bring themselves down to ‘‘riding in a car with 
rag-tag and bobtail and-Lord-knows-who.”’ Poor 
old aristocrat! — the landlord charged her no 
rent for the room, and the neighbors took turns 
in supplying her with meals. Towards the close 
of her life — she lived to be ninety-nine — she 
grew very fretful and capricious about her food. 
If she didn’t chance to fancy what was sent her, 
she had no hesitation in sending it back to the 
giver with ‘‘Miss Jocelyn’s respectful compli- 
ments.”’ 

But I have been gossiping too long —- and yet 
not too long if I have impressed upon the reader 
an idea of what a rusty, delightful old town it 
was to which I had come to spend the next three 
or four years of my boyhood. 

A drive of twenty minutes from the station 
brought us to the doorstep of Grandfather Nut- 
ter’s house. What kind of house it was, and what 
sort of people lived in it, shall be told in another 
chapter. 





GRA TERI. 
THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTER FAMILY 


THE Nutter House —all the more prominent 
dwellings in Rivermouth are named after some- 
body; for instance, there is the Walford House, 
the Venner House, the Trefethen House, etc., 
though it by no means follows that they are in- 
habited by the people whose names they bear — 
the Nutter House, to resume, has been in our 
family nearly a hundred years, and is an honor 
to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), 
supposing durability to be a merit. If our an- 
cestor was a carpenter, he knew his trade. I 
wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such 
workmanship don’t often come together in houses 
built nowadays. 

Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide 
hall running through the middle. At your right 
hand, as you enter, stands a tall black mahogany 


86) “THE STORY OR. A BADVEO™X 


clock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up 
on end. On each side of the hall are doors (whose 
knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn very 
easily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and 
rich in wood-carvings about the mantelpieces 
and cornices. The walls are covered with pictured 
paper, representing landscapes and sea-views. In 
the parlor, for example, this enlivening figure is 
repeated all over the room: — A group of English 
peasants, wearing Italian hats, are dancing ona 
lawn that abruptly resolves itself into a sea- 
beach, upon which stands a flabby fisherman 
(nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what 
appears to be a small whale, and totally regard- 
less of the dreadful naval combat going on just 
beyond the end of his fishing-rod. On the other 
side of the ships is the main-land again, with the 
same peasants dancing. Our ancestors were 
very worthy people, but their wall-papers were 
abominable. 

There are neither grates nor stoves in these 
quaint chambers, but splendid open chimney- 
places, with room enough for the corpulent back- 
log to turn over comfortably on the polished and- 
‘rons. A wide staircase leads from the hall to 
the second story, which is arranged much like 
the first. Over this is the garret. I needn’t tell 


THE NUTTER HOUSE 37 


a New England boy what a museum of curiosi- 
ties is the garret of a well-regulated New England 
house of fifty or sixty years’ standing. Here 
meet together, as if by some preconcerted ar- 
rangement, all the broken-down chairs of the 
household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy 
hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the 
split walking-sticks that have retired from busi- 
ness, ‘‘weary with the march of life.’”” The pots, 
the pans, the trunks, the bottles, —- who may 
hope to make an inventory of the numberless 
odds and ends collected in this bewildering 
lumber-room? But what a place it is to sit of an 
afternoon with the rain pattering on the roof! 
what a place in which to read ‘‘Gulliver’s Trav- 
els,’’ or the famous adventures of Rinaldo Rinal- 
dini! 

My grandfather’s house stood a little back 
from the main street, in the shadow of two hand- 
some elms, whose overgrown boughs would dash 
themselves against the gables whenever the wind 
blew hard. In the rear was a pleasant garden, 
covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full of 
plum-trees and gooseberry-bushes. These trees 
were old settlers, and are all dead now, excepting 
one, which bears a purple plum as big as an egg. 
This tree, as I remark, is still standing, and a 


38 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


more beautiful tree to tumble out of never grew 
anywhere. In the northwestern corner of the 
garden were the stables and carriage-house open- 
ing upon a narrow lane. You may imagine that 
I made an early visit to that locality to inspect 
Gypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half- 
hour during the first day of my arrival. At the 
twenty-fourth visit she trod on my foot rather 
heavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was 
wearing out my welcome. She was a knowing 
little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to 
say of her in the course of these pages. 

Gypsy’s quarters were all that could be wished, 
but nothing among my new surroundings gave 
me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping 
apartment that had been prepared for myself. 
It was the hall room over the front door. 

I had never had a chamber all to myself before, 
and this one, about twice the size of our state- 
room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of 
neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains 
hung at the window and a patch quilt of more 
colors than were in Joseph’s coat covered the 
little truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper 
{eft nothing to be desired in that line. On a gray 
background were small bunches of leaves, unlike 
any that ever grew in this world; and on every 


THE NUTTER HOUSE 39 


other bunch perched a yellow-bird, pitted with 
crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from a 
severe attack of the small-pox. That no such 
bird ever existed did not detract from my ad- 
miration of each one. There were two hundred 
and sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting 
those split in two where the paper was badly 
joined. I counted them once when I was laid 
up with a fine black eye, and falling asleep im- 
mediately dreamed that the whole flock suddenly 
took wing and flew out of the window. From 
that time I was never able to regard them as 
merely inanimate objects. 

A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved 
mahogany drawers, a looking-glass in a filigreed 
frame, and a high-backed chair studded with 
brass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. 
Over the head of the bed were two oak shelves, 
holding perhaps a dozen books — among which 
were ‘‘ Theodore, or The Peruvians’’; ‘‘ Robinson 
Crusoe’’; an odd volume of ‘‘ Tristram Shandy”’; 
Baxter’s ‘‘Saints’ Rest,’’ and a fine English edi- 
tion of the “Arabian Nights,’’ with six hundred 
wood-cuts by Harvey. 

Shall I ever forget the hour when I first over- 
hauled these books? I do not allude especially to 
Baxter’s ‘‘Saints’ Rest,’’ which is far from being 


40 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


a lively work for the young, but to the “Ara- 
bian Nights,’ and particularly ‘‘Robinson Cru- 
soe.” The thrill that ran into my fingers’ ends 
then has not run out yet. Many a time did I 
steal up to this nest of a room, and, taking the 
dog’s-eared volume from its shelf, glide off into an 
enchanted realm, where there were no lessons to 
get and no boys to smash my kite. In a lidless 
trunk in the garret I subsequently unearthed 
another motley collection of novels and romances, 
embracing the ‘‘Adventures of Baron Trenck,”’ 
“Jack Sheppard,” ‘‘Don Quixote,’ ‘‘Gil Blas,” 
and ‘‘Charlotte Temple,” — all of which I fed 
upon like a bookworm. 

I never come across a copy of any of those 
works without feeling a certain tenderness for 
the yellow-haired little rascal who used to lean 
above the magic pages hour after hour, reli- 
giously believing every word he read, and no 
more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, 
or the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, 
than he did the existence of his own grandfather. 

Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a 
single-barrel shot-gun — placed there by Grand- 
father Nutter, who knew what a boy loved, if 
ever a grandfather did. As the trigger of the gun 
had been accidentally twisted off, it was not, 


THE NUTTER HOUSE 4I 


perhaps, the most dangerous weapon that could 
be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed 
condition its “‘bump of destructiveness’’ was 
much less than that of my small brass pocket- 
pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend 
from one of the nails supporting the fowling- 
piece, for my vagaries concerning the red man 
had been entirely dispelled. 

Having introduced the reader to the Nutter 
House, a presentation to the Nutter family 
naturally follows. The family consisted of my 
grandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; and 
Kitty Collins, the maid-of-all-work. 

Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old 
gentleman, as straight and as bald as an arrow. 
He had been a sailor in early life; that is to say, 
at the age of ten years he fled from the multi- 
plication-table, and ran away to sea. A single 
voyage satisfied him. There never was but one 
of our family who didn’t run away to sea, and 
this one died at his birth. My grandfather had 
also been a soldier — a captain of militia in 1812. 
If I owe the British nation anything, I owe thanks 
to that particular British soldier who put a 
musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nut- 
ter’s leg, causing that noble warrior a slight per- 
manent limp, but offsetting the injury by fur- 


42 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


nishing him with the material for a story which 
the old gentleman was never weary of telling and 
I never weary of listening to. The story, in brief, 
was as follows. 

At the breaking out of the war, an English 
frigate lay for several days off the coast near 
Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, 
and a regiment of minute-men, scattered at va- 
rious points along-shore, stood ready to repel 
the boats, should the enemy try to effect a land- 
ing. Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earth- 
work just outside the mouth of the river. Late 
one thick night the sound of oars was heard; the 
sentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and 
couldn’t, when Captain Nutter sprung upon the 
parapet in the pitch darkness, and shouted, ‘‘ Boat 
ahoy!’’ A musket-shot immediately embedded 
itself in the calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled 
into the fort and the boat, which had probably 
come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate. 

This was my grandfather’s only exploit during 
the war. That his prompt and bold conduct was 
instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopeless- 
ness of attempting to conquer such a people was 
among the firm beliefs of my boyhood. 

At the time I came to Rivermouth my grand- 
father had retired from active pursuits, and was 


THE NUTTER HOUSE 43 


living at ease on his money, invested principally 
in shipping. He had been a widower many years; 
a maiden sister, the aforesaid Miss Abigail, man- 
aging his household. Miss Abigail also managed 
her brother, and her brother’s servant, and the 
visitor at her brother’s gate — not in a tyrannical 
spirit, but from a philanthropic desire to be use- 
ful to everybody. In person she was tall and 
angular; she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, 
gray eyebrows, and generally wore a gray dress. 
Her strongest weak point was a belief in the eff- 
cacy of “‘hot-drops”’ as a cure for all known 
diseases. 

If there were ever two people who seemed to 
dislike each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins 
were those people. If ever two people really loved 
each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were 
those people also. They were always either skir- 
mishing or having a cup of tea lovingly together. 

Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so was 
Kitty; and in the course of their disagreements 
each let me into the private history of the other. 

According to Kitty, it was not originally my 
grandfather’s intention to have Miss Abigail at 
the head of his domestic establishment. She had 
swooped down on him (Kitty’s own words), with 
a band-box in one hand and a faded blue cotton 


44. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Clad 
in this singular garb — I do not remember that 
Kitty alluded to any additional peculiarity of 
dress — Miss Abigail had made her appearance 
at the door of the Nutter House on the morning 
of my grandmother’s funeral. The small amount 
of baggage which the lady brought with her 
would have led the superficial observer to infer 
that Miss Abigail’s visit was limited to a few 
days. I run ahead of my story in saying she re- 
mained seventeen years! How much longer she 
would have remained can never be definitely 
known now, as she died at the expiration of that 
period. 

Whether or not my grandfather was quite 
pleased by this unlooked-for addition to his fam- 
ily is a problem. He was very kind always to 
Miss Abigail, and seldom opposed her; though 
I think she must have tried his patience some- 
times, especially when she interfered with Kitty. 

Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she pre- 
ferred to be called, was descended in a direct line 
from an extensive family of kings who formerly 
ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various ca- 
lamities, among which the failure of the potato- 
crop may be mentioned, Miss Kitty Collins, in 
company with several hundred of her country- 


THE NUTTER HOUSE 45 


men and countrywomen — also descended from 
kings — came over to America in an emigrant 
ship, in the year eighteen hundred and some- 
thing. 

I don’t know what freak of fortune caused the 
royal exile to turn up at Rivermouth; but turn 
up she did, a few months after arriving in this 
country, and was hired by my grandmother to 
do ‘general housework”’ for the sum of four shil- 
lings and sixpence a week. 

Kitty had been living about seven years in my 
grandfather’s family when she unburdened her 
heart of a secret which had been weighing upon 
it all that time. It may be said of people, as it 
is said of nations, ‘‘Happy are they that have 
no history.’’ Kitty had a history, and a pathetic 
one, I think. 

On board the emigrant ship that brought her 
to America, she became acquainted with a sailor, 
who, being touched by Kitty’s forlorn condition, 
was very good to her. Long before the end of the 
voyage, which had been tedious and perilous, 
she was heartbroken at the thought of separating 
from her kindly protector; but they were not to 
part just yet, for the sailor returned Kitty’s af- 
fection, and the two were married on their arrival 
at port. Kitty’s husband-— she would never 


46 THE*STORY OF APBADIBOY 


mention his name, but kept it locked in her bosom 
like some precious relic— had a considerable 
sum of money when the crew were paid off; and 
the young couple — for Kitty was young then — 
lived very happily in a lodging-house on South 
Street, near the docks. This was in New York. 

The days flew by like hours, and the stocking 
in which the little bride kept the funds shrunk 
and shrunk, until at last there were only three or 
four dollars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was 
troubled; for she knew her sailor would have to 
go to sea again unless he could get employment 
on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with 
much success. One morning as usual he kissed 
her good day, and set out in search of work. 

“Kissed me good-bye, and called me his little 
Irish lass,’’ sobbed Kitty, telling the story — 
‘kissed me good-bye, and, Heaven help me! I 
niver set oi on him nor on the likes of him again.” ’ 

He never came back. Day after day dragged 
on, night after night, and then the weary weeks. 
What had become of him? Had he been mur- 
dered? had he fallen into the docks? had he — 
deserted her? No! she could not believe that; he 
was too brave and tender and true. She couldn’t 
believe that. He was dead, dead, or he’d come 
back to her. 


THE NUTTER HOUSE 47 


Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house 
turned Kitty into the streets, now that “her 
man’”’ was gone, and the payment of the rent 
doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The 
family she lived with shortly moved to Boston, 
and she accompanied. them; then they went 
abroad, but Kitty would not leave America. 
Somehow she drifted to Rivermouth, and for 
seven long years never gave speech to her sor- 
row, until the kindness of strangers, who had 
become friends to her, unsealed the heroic lips. 

Kitty’s story, you may be sure, made my 
grandparents treat her more kindly than ever. 
In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant 
than as a friend in the home circle, sharing its 
joys and sorrows —a faithful nurse, a willing 
slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hear 
her singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing 
from time to time to make some witty reply to 
Miss Abigail — for Kitty, like all her race, had a 
vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest 
face comes to me out from the past, the light and 
life of the Nutter House when I was a boy at 
Rivermouth. 





CHAPTER VI 
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


THE first shadow that fell upon me in my new 
home was caused by the return of my parents to 
New Orleans. Their visit was cut short by 
business which required my father’s presence in 
Natchez, where he was establishing a branch of 
the banking-house. When they had gone, a sense 
of loneliness such as I had never dreamed of filled 
my young breast. I crept away to the stable, and, 
throwing my arms about Gypsy’s neck, sobbed 
aloud. She too had come from the sunny South, 
and was now a stranger in a strange land. 

The little mare seemed to realize our situation, 
and gave me all the sympathy I could ask, re- 
peatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face and 
lapping up my salt tears with evident relish. 
When night came, I felt still more lonesome. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 49 


My grandfather sat in his armchair the greater 
part of the evening, reading the ‘‘Rivermouth 
Barnacle,’’ the local newspaper. There was no 
gas in those days, and the Captain read by the 
aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in 
one hand. I observed that he had a habit of 
dropping off into a doze every three or four min- 
utes, and I forgot my homesickness at intervals 
in watching him. Two or three times, to my vast 
amusement, he scorched the edges of the news- 
paper with the wick of the lamp; and at about 
half-past eight o’clock I had the satisfaction — I 
am sorry to confess it was a satisfaction — of 
seeing the ‘‘Rivermouth Barnacle”’ in flames. 
My grandfather leisurely extinguished the fire 
with his hands, and Miss Abigail, who sat near 
a low table, knitting by the light of an astral 
lamp, did not even look up. She was quite used 


Nee catastrophe. 
here was little or no conversation during the 


evening. In fact, I do not remember that any 
one spoke at all, excepting once, when the Cap- 
tain remarked, in a meditative manner, that my 


‘ 


parents ‘‘must have reached New York by this 
time”; at which supposition I nearly strangled 
myself in attempting to intercept a sob. 

| The monotonous ‘‘click-click’’ of Miss Abi- 


+ 
ih. 
Ct 
Se pe 
3 


50 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


gail’s needles made me nervous after a while, and 
finally drove me out of the sitting-room into the 
kitchen, where Kitty caused me to laugh by say- 
ing Miss Abigail thought that what I needed was 
‘‘a good dose of hot-drops’’— a remedy she was 
forever ready to administer in all emergencies. 
If a boy broke his leg, or lost his mother, I be- 
lieve Miss Abigail would have given him hot- 
drops. 

Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She 
told me several funny Irish stories, and described 
some of the odd people living in the town; but, in 
the midst of her comicalities, the tears would 
involuntarily ooze out of my eyes, though I was 
not a lad much addicted to weeping. Then Kitty 
would put her arms around me, and tell me not 
to mind it — that it wasn’t as if I had been left 
alone in a foreign land with no one to care for 
me, like a poor girl whom she had once known. 
I brightened up before long, and told Kitty all 
about the Typhoon and the old seaman, whose 
name I tried in vain to recall, and was obliged 
to fall back on plain Sailor Ben. 

I was glad when ten o’clock came, the bedtime 
for young folks, and old folks too, at the Nutter 
House. Alone in the hall-chamber I had my cry 
out, once for all, moistening the pillow to such 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 51 


an extent that I was obliged to turn it over to 
find a dry spot to go to sleep on. 

My grandfather wisely concluded to put me to 
school at once. If I had been permitted to go 
mooning about the house and stables, I should 
have kept my discontent alive for months. The 
next morning, accordingly, he took me by the 
hand, and we set forth for the academy, which 
was located at the farther end of the town. 

The Temple School was a two-story brick 
building, standing in the centre of a great square 
piece of land, surrounded by a high picket fence. 
There were three or four sickly trees, but no 
grass, in this enclosure, which had been worn 
smooth and hard by the tread of multitudinous 
feet. I noticed here and there small holes scooped 
in the ground, indicating that it was the season 
for marbles. A better playground for baseball 
couldn’t have been devised. 

On reaching the school-house door, the Cap- 
tain inquired for Mr. Grimshaw. The boy who 
answered our knock ushered us into a side-room, 
and in a few minutes — during which my eye 
took in forty-two caps hung on forty-two wooden 
pegs — Mr. Grimshaw made his appearance. 
‘He was a slender man, with white, fragile hands, 
and eyes that glanced half a dozen different ways 


s2 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


at once — a habit probably acquired from watch- 
ing the boys. 

After a brief consultation, my grandfather 
patted me on the head and left me in charge of 
this gentleman, who seated himself in front of 
me and proceeded to sound the depth, or, more 
properly speaking, the shallowness, of my at- 
tainments. I suspect my historical information 
rather startled him. I recollect I gave him to 
understand that Richard III was the last king 
of England. 

This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and bade 
me follow him. A door opened, and I stood in the 
blaze of forty-two pairs of upturned eyes. I was 
a cool hand for my age, but I lacked the boldness | 
to face this battery without wincing. In a sort ~ 
of dazed way I stumbled after Mr. Grimshaw 
down a narrow aisle between two rows of desks, 
and shyly took the seat pointed out to me. 

The faint buzz that had floated over the school- 
room at our entrance died away, and the inter- 
rupted lessons were resumed. By degrees I re- 
covered my coolness, and ventured to look around 
me. 

The owners of the forty-two caps were seated 
at small green desks like the one assigned to me. 
The desks were arranged in six rows, with spaces 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 53 


between just wide enough to prevent the boys’ 
whispering. A blackboard set into the wall ex- 
tended clear across the end of the room; on a 
raised platform near the door stood the master’s 
table; and directly in front of this was a recita- 
tion-bench capable of seating fifteen or twenty 
pupils. A pair of globes, tattooed with dragons 
and winged horses, occupied a shelf between 
two windows, which were so high from the floor 
that nothing but a giraffe could have looked out 
of them. 

Having possessed myself of these details, I 
scrutinized my new acquaintances with uncon- 
cealed curiosity, instinctively selecting my friends 
and picking out my enemies — and in only two 
cases did I mistake my man. 

A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in the 
fourth row, shook his fist at me furtively several 
times during the morning. I had a presentiment 
I should have trouble with that boy some day — 
a presentiment subsequently realized. 

On my left was a chubby little fellow with a 
great many freckles (this was Pepper Whitcomb), 
who made some mysterious motions to me. I 
didn’t understand them, but, as they were clearly 
of a pacific nature, I winked my eye at him. 
This appeared to be satisfactory, for he then 


s4 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


went on with his studies. At recess he gave me 
the core of his apple, though there were several 
applicants for it. 

Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket 
with two rows of brass buttons held up a folded 
paper behind his slate, intimating that it was in- 
tended for me. The paper was passed skilfully 
from desk to desk until it reached my hands. 
On opening the scrap, I found that it contained 
a small piece of molasses candy in an extremely 
humid state. This was certainly kind. I nodded 
my acknowledgments and hastily slipped the del- 
icacy into my mouth. In a second I felt my 
tongue grow red-hot with cayenne pepper. 

My face must have assumed a comical ex- 
pression, for the boy in the olive-green jacket 
gave an hysterical laugh, for which he was in- 
stantly punished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swallowed — 
the fiery candy, though it brought the water to 
my eyes, and managed to look so unconcerned 
that I was the only pupil in the form who es- 
caped questioning as to the cause of Marden’s 
misdemeanor. C. Marden was his name. 

Nothing else occurred that morning to inter- 
rupt the exercises, excepting that a boy in the 
reading class threw us all into convulsions by 
calling Absalom A-bol’-som — ‘‘Abolsom, O my 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 55 


son Abolsom!”’’ I laughed as loud as any one, 
but I am not so sure that I shouldn’t have pro- 
nounced it Abolsom myself. 

At recess several of the scholars came to my 
desk and shook hands with me, Mr. Grimshaw 
having previously introduced me to Phil Adams, 
charging him to see that I got into no trouble. 
My new acquaintances suggested that we should 
go to the playground. We were no sooner out of 
doors than the boy with the red hair thrust his 
way through the crowd and placed himself at 
my side. 

“TI say, youngster, if you’re comin’ to this 
school you’ve got to toe the mark.” 

I didn’t see any mark to toe, and didn’t under- 
stand what he meant; but I replied politely, that, 
if it was the custom of the school, I should be 
happy to toe the mark, if he would point it out 
to me. 

‘I don’t want any of your sarse,’”’ said the 
boy, scowling. 

‘Look here, Conway!”’ cried a clear voice from 
the other side of the playground, ‘‘you let young 
Bailey alone. He’s a stranger here, and might 
be afraid of you, and thrash you. Why do you 
always throw yourself in the way of getting 
thrashed ?”’ 


56 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


I turned to the speaker, who by this time had 
reached the spot where we stood. Conway slunk 
off, favoring me with a parting scowl of defiance. 
I gave my hand to the boy who had befriended 
me — his name was Jack Harris — and thanked 
him for his good-will. 

“‘T tell you what it is, Bailey,” he said, return- 
ing my pressure good-naturedly, ‘‘ you'll have to 
fight Conway before the quarter ends, or you'll 
have no rest. That fellow is always hankering 
after a licking, and of course you'll give him one 
by and by; but what’s the use of hurrying up an 
unpleasant job? Let’s have some baseball. By 
the way, Bailey, you were a good kid not to let 
on to Grimshaw about the candy. Charley Mar- 
den would have caught it twice as heavy. He’s 
sorry he played the joke on you, and told me 
to tell you so. Hallo, Blake! Where are the 
bats?”’ 

This was addressed to a handsome, frank- 
looking lad of about my own age, who was en- 
gaged just then in cutting his initials on the bark 
of a tree near the school-house. Blake shut up his 
penknife and went off to get the bats. | 

During the game which ensued I made the 
acquaintance of Charley Marden, Binny Wallace, 
Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Lang- 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 57 


don. These boys, none of them more than a year 
or two older than I (Binny Wallace was younger), 
were ever after my chosen comrades. Phil Adams 
and Jack Harris were considerably our seniors, 
and, though they always treated us ‘‘kids”’ very 
kindly, they generally went with another set. 
Of course, before long I knew all the Temple 
boys more or less intimately, but the five I have 
named were my constant companions. 

My first day at the Temple Grammar School 
was on the whole satisfactory. I had made sev- 
eral warm friends and only two permanent en- 
emies — Conway and his echo, Seth Rodgers; 
for these two always went together like a de- 
ranged stomach and a headache. 

Before the end of the week I had my studies 
well in hand. I was a little ashamed at finding 
myself at the foot of the various classes, and 
secretly determined to deserve promotion. The 
school was an admirable one. I might make this 
part of my story more entertaining by picturing 
Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a red nose and a 
large stick; but unfortunately for the purposes 
of sensational narrative, Mr. Grimshaw was a 
quiet, kind-hearted gentleman. Though a rigid 
disciplinarian, he had a keen sense of justice, 
was a good reader of character, and the boys 


58 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


respected him. There were two other teachers — 
a French tutor and a writing-master, who visited 
the school twice a week. On Wednesdays and Sat- 
urdays we were dismissed at noon, and these half- 
holidays were the brightest epochs of my existence. 


Daily contact with boys who had not been 
brought up as gently as I worked an immediate, 
and, in some respects, a beneficial change in my 
character. I had the nonsense taken out of me, 
as the saying is — some of the nonsense, at least. 
I became more manly and self-reliant. I dis 
covered that the world was not created exclu- 
sively on my account. In New Orleans I labored 
under the delusion that it was. Having neither 
brother nor sister to give up to at home, and be- 
ing, moreover, the largest pupil at school there, 
my will had seldom been opposed. At River- 
mouth matters were different, and I was not 
long in adapting myself to the altered circum- 
stances. Of course I got many severe rubs, often 
unconsciously given; but I had the sense to see 
that I was all the better for them. 

My social relations with my new schoolfellows 
were the pleasantest possible. There was always 
some exciting excursion on foot —a ramble 
through the pine woods, a visit to the Devil’s 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 59 


Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood — or a 
surreptitious row on the river, involving an ex- 
ploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon 
one of which we pitched a tent and played we 
were the Spanish sailors who got wrecked there 
years ago. But the endless pine forest that skirted 
the town was our favorite haunt. There was a 
great green pond hidden somewhere in its depths, 
inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. 
Harry Blake, who had an eccentric passion for 
carving his name on everything, never let a cap- 
tured turtle slip through his fingers without 
leaving his mark engraved on its shell. He must 
have lettered about two thousand from first to 
last. We used to call them Harry Blake’s sheep. 

These turtles were of a discontented and mi- 
gratory turn of mind, and we frequently en- 
countered two or three of them on the cross-roads 
several miles from their ancestral mud. Un- 
speakable was our delight whenever we discov- 
ered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake’s 
initials! I’ve no doubt there are, at this moment, 
fat ancient turtles wandering about that gummy 
woodland with H. B. neatly cut on their vener- 
able backs. 

It soon became a custom among my play- 
mates to make our barn their rendezvous. Gypsy 


60 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


proved a strong attraction. Captain Nutter 
bought me a little two-wheeled cart, which she 
drew quite nicely, after kicking out the dasher 
and breaking the shafts once or twice. With our 
lunch-baskets and fishing-tackle stowed away 
under the seat, we used to start off early in the 
afternoon for the sea-shore, where there were 
countless marvels in the shape of shells, mosses, 
and kelp. Gypsy enjoyed the sport as keenly as 
any of us, even going so far, one day, as to trot 
down the beach into the sea where we were bath- 
ing. As she took the cart with her, our provisions 
were not much improved. I shall never forget 
how squash-pie tastes after being soused in the 
Atlantic Ocean. Soda-crackers dipped in salt 
water are palatable, but not squash-pie. 

There was a good deal of wet weather during 
those first six weeks at Rivermouth, and we set 
ourselves at work to find some indoor amusement 
for our half-holidays. It was all very well for 
Amadis de Gaul and Don Quixote not to mind the 
rain; they had iron overcoats, and were not, from 
all we can learn, subject to croup and the guidance 
of their grandfathers. Our case was different. 

‘‘Now, boys, what shall we do?’’ I asked, ad- 
dressing a thoughtful conclave of seven, assem- 
bled in our barn one dismal rainy afternoon. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 61 


“‘Let’s have a theatre,’’ suggested Binny Wal- 
lace. 

The very thing! But where? The loft of the 
stable was ready to burst with hay provided for 
Gypsy, but the long room over the carriage-house 
was unoccupied. The place of all places! My 
managerial eye saw at a glance its capabilities 
for a theatre. I had been to the play a great 
many times in New Orleans, and was wise in 
matters pertaining to the drama. So here, in due 
time, was set up some extraordinary scenery of 
my own painting. The curtain, I recollect, though 
it worked smoothly enough on other occasions, 
invariably hitched during the performances; and 
it often required the united energies of the Prince 
of Denmark, the King, and the Grave-digger, 
with an occasional hand from ‘‘the fair Ophelia”’ 
(Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to 
hoist that bit of green cambric. 

The theatre, however, was a success, as far 
as it went. I retired from the business with no 
fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after deducting ° 
the headless, the pointless, and the crooked pins 
with which our doorkeeper frequently got “‘stuck.”’ 
From first to last we took in a great deal of this 
counterfeit money. The price of admission to 
the ‘“‘Rivermouth Theatre’? was twenty pins. I 


\ 


62 THE STORY: OF VA BAD Say 


played all the principal parts myself — not that 
I was a finer actor than the other boys, but be- 
cause I owned the establishment. 

At the tenth representation, my dramatic ca- 
reer was brought to a close by an unfortunate 
circumstance. We were playing the drama of 
“William Tell, the Hero of Switzerland.” Of 
course I was William Tell, in spite of Fred Lang- 
ton, who wanted to act that character himself. 
I wouldn’t let him, so he withdrew from the com- 
pany, taking the only bow and arrow we had. 
I made a cross-bow out of a piece of whalebone, 
and did very well without him. We had reached 
that exciting scene where Gessler, the Austrian 
tyrant, commands Tell to shoot the apple from 
his son’s head. Pepper Whitcomb, who played 
all the juvenile and women parts, was my son. 
To guard against mischance, a piece of paste- 
board was fastened by a handkerchief over the 
upper portion of Whitcomb’s face, while the ar- 
row to be used was sewed up in astrip of flannel. 
I was a capital marksman, and the big apple, 
only two yards distant, turned its russet cheek 
fairly towards me. 

I can see poor little Pepper now, as he stood 
without flinching, waiting for me to perform my 
great feat. I raised the cross-bow amid the breath- 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 63 


less silence of the crowded audience — consist- 
ing of seven boys and three girls, exclusive of 
Kitty Collins, who insisted on paying her way in 
with a clothes-pin. I raised the cross-bow, I re- 
peat. Twang! went the whipcord; but, alas! in- 
stead of hitting the apple, the arrow flew right 
into Pepper Whitcomb’s mouth, which happened 
to be open at the time, and destroyed my aim. 

I shall never be able to banish that awful mo- 
ment from my memory. Pepper’s roar, expres- 
sive of astonishment, indignation, and pain, is 
still ringing in my ears. I looked upon him as a 
corpse, and, glancing not far into the dreary 
future, pictured myself led forth to execution in 
the presence of the very same spectators then 
assembled. 

Luckily poor Pepper was not seriously hurt; 
but Grandfather Nutter, appearing in the midst 
of the confusion (attracted by the howls of young 
Tell), issued an injunction against all theatricals 
thereafter, and the place was closed; not, how- 
ever, without a farewell speech from me, in which 
I said that this would have been the proudest 
moment of my life if I hadn’t hit Pepper Whit- 
comb in the mouth. Whereupon the audience 
(assisted, I am glad to state, by Pepper) cried 
‘Hear! hear!’’ I then attributed the accident to 


64 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Pepper himself, whose mouth, being open at the 
instant I fired, acted upon the arrow much after 
the fashion of a whirlpool, and drew in the fatal 
shaft. I was about to explain how a compara- 
tively small maelstrom could suck in the largest 
ship, when the curtain fell of its own accord, amid 
the shouts of the audience. 

This was my last appearance on any stage. 
It was some time, though, before Tsheard the end 
of the William Tell business. Malicious little 
boys who hadn’t been allowed to buy tickets to 
my theatre used to cry out after me in the street, 


“€ Who killed Cock Robin?’ 
‘I,’ said the sparrer, 
“With my bow and arrer, 

I killed Cock Robin!’”’ 


The sarcasm of this verse was more than I could 
stand. And it made Pepper Whitcomb pretty 
mad to be called Cock Robin, I can tell you! 

So the days glided on, with fewer clouds and 
more sunshine than fall to the lot of most boys. 
Conway was certainly a cloud. Within school- 
bounds he seldom ventured to be aggressive; but 
whenever we met about town he never failed to 
brush against me, or pull my cap over my eyes, or 
drive me distracted by inquiring after my family 
in New Orleans, always alluding to them as highly 
respectable colored people. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 65 


Jack Harris was right when he said Conway 
would give me no rest until I fought him. | felt 
it was ordained ages before our birth that we 
should meet on this planet and fight. With the 
view of not running counter to destiny, I quietly 
prepared myself for the impending conflict. The 
scene of my dramatic triumphs was turned into a 
gymnasium for this purpose, though I did not 
openly avow the fact to the boys. By persist- 
ently standing on my head, raising heavy weights, 
and going hand over hand up a ladder, I devel- 
oped my muscle until my little body was as 
tough as a hickory knot and as supple as tripe. I 
also took occasional lessons in the noble art of 
self-defence, under the tuition of Phil Adams. 

I brooded over the matter until the idea 
of fighting Conway became a part of me. I 
fought him in imagination during school-hours; 
I dreamed of fighting with him at night, when 
he would suddenly expand into a giant twelve 
feet high, and then as suddenly shrink into a 
pygmy so small that [ couldn’t hit him. In this 
latter shape he would get into my hair, or pop 
into my waistcoat-pocket, treating me with as 
little ceremony as the Lilliputians showed Captain 
Lemuel Gulliver — all of which was not pleasant, 
to be sure. On the whole, Conway was a cloud. 


66. “THE STORY OF A“ BAD Bae 


And then I had a cloud at home. It was not 
Grandfather Nutter, nor Miss Abigail, nor Kitty 
Collins, though they all helped to compose it. 
It was a vague, funereal, impalpable something 
which no amount of gymnastic training would 
enable me to knock over. It was Sunday. If 
ever I have a boy to bring up in the way he should 
go, I intend to make Sunday a cheerful day to 
him. Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nut- 
ter House. You shall judge for yourself. 

It is Sunday morning. I should premise by 
saying that the deep gloom which has settled 
over everything set in like a heavy fog early on 
Saturday evening. 

At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smile- 
lessly downstairs. He is dressed in black, and 
looks as if he had lost all his friends during the 
night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as if 
she were prepared to bury them, and not indis- 
posed to enjoy the ceremony. Even Kitty Collins 
has caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive 
when she brings in the coffee-urn — a solemn and 
sculpturesque urn at any time, but monumental 
now — and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail. 
Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held the 
ashes of her ancestors, instead of a generous 
quantity of fine old Java coffee. The meal pro- 
gresses in silence. 


) 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 67 


Our parlor is by no means thrown open every 
day. It is open this June morning, and is per- 
vaded by a strong smell of centre-table. The fur- 
niture of the room, and the little china ornaments 
on the mantelpiece, have a constrained, unfamil- 
iar look. My grandfather sits in a mahogany 
chair, reading a large Bible covered with green 
baize. Miss Abigail occupies one end of the 
sofa, and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap. 
I sitin the corner, crushed. ‘‘ Robinson Crusoe”’ 
and ‘‘Gil Blas’’ are in close confinement. Baron 
Trenck, who managed to escape from the fortress 
of Glatz, can’t for the life of him get out of our 
sitting-room closet. Even the ‘ Rivermouth Bar- 
nacle’’ is suppressed until Monday. Genial con- 
verse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, 
all are banished. If I want to read anything, I 
can read Baxter’s ‘Saints’ Rest.’’ I would die 
first. So I sit there kicking my heels, thinking 
about New Orleans, and watching a morbid 
blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide 
by butting his head against the window-pane. 
Listen! — no, yes — it is — it is the robins sing- 
ing in the garden — the grateful, joyous robins 
singing away like mad, just as if it wasn’t Sun- 
day. Their audacity tickles me. 

My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a 


68: THE STORY, OF ‘A BAD VEO 


sepulchral voice if I am ready for Sabbath school. 
It is time to go. I like the Sabbath school; there 
are bright young faces there, at all events. When 
I get out into the sunshine alone, I draw a long 
breath; I would turn a somersault up against 
Neighbor Penhallow’s newly painted fence if I 
hadn’t my best trousers on, so glad am [| to 
escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the 
Nutter House. 

Sabbath school over, I go to meeting, joining 
my grandfather, who doesn’t appear to be any 
relation to me this day, and Miss Abigail, in the 
porch. Our minister holds out very little hope 
to any of us of being saved. Convinced that I am 
a lost creature, in common with the human fam- 
ily, I return home behind my guardians at a 
snail’s pace. We have a dead cold dinner. I saw 
it laid out yesterday. 

There is a long interval between this repast 
and the second service, and a still longer interval 
between the beginning and the end of that service; 
for the Reverend Wibird Hawkins’s sermons are 
none of the shortest, whatever else they may be. 

After meeting, my grandfather and I take a 
walk. We visit — appropriately enough —a neigh- 
boring graveyard. I am by this time in a condition 
of mind to become a willing inmate of the place. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 69 


The usual evening prayer-meeting is postponed 
for some reason. At half-past eight I go to bed. 
This is the way Sunday was observed in the 
Nutter House, and pretty generally throughout 
the town, twenty years ago. People who were 
prosperous and natural and happy on Saturday 
became the most rueful of human beings in the 
brief space of twelve hours. I don’t think there 
was any hypocrisy in this. It was merely the old 
Puritan austerity cropping out once a week. 
Many of these people were pure Christians every 
day in the seven — excepting the seventh. Then 
they were decorous and solemn to the verge of mo- 
roseness. I should not like to be misunderstood 
on this point. Sunday is a blessed day, and there- 
fore it should not be made a gloomy one. It is 
the Lord’s day, and I do believe that cheerful 
hearts and faces are not unpleasant in His sight. 
O day of rest! How beautiful, how fair, 

How welcome to the weary and the old! 

Day of the Lord! and truce to earthly cares! 

Day of the Lord, as all our days should be! 

Ah, why will man by his austerities 


Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, 
And make of thee a dungeon of despair!” 





CHAPTER VII 
ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 


Two months had elapsed since my arrival at 
Rivermouth, when the approach of an important 
celebration produced the greatest excitement 
among the juvenile population of the town. 
There was very little hard study done in the 
Temple Grammar School the week preceding the 
Fourth of July. For my part, my heart and brain 
were so full of fire-crackers, Roman-candles, rock- 
ets, pin-wheels, squibs, and gunpowder in vari- 
ous seductive forms, that I wonder I didn’t 
explode under Mr. Grimshaw’s very nose. I 
couldn’t do a sum to save me; I couldn’t tell, 
for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the 
capital of Tennessee or of Florida; the present 
and the pluperfect tenses were inextricably mixed 
in my memory, and I didn’t know a verb from 
an adjective when I met one. This was not alone 
my condition, but that of every boy in the school. 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 71 


Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances 
for our temporary distraction, and sought to fix 
our interest on the lessons by connecting them 
directly or indirectly with the coming Event. 
The class in arithmetic, for instance, was re- 
quested to state how many boxes of fire-crackers, 
each box measuring sixteen inches square, could 
be stored in a room of such and such dimensions. 
He gave us the Declaration of Independence for 
a parsing exercise, and in geography confined his 
questions almost exclusively to localities rendered 
famous in the Revolutionary War. 

‘What did the people of Boston do with the 
tea on board the English vessels?”’ asked our 
wily instructor. 

‘Threw it into the river!’’ shrieked the smaller 
boys, with an impetuosity that made Mr. Grim- 
shaw smile in spite of himself. One luckless ur- 
chin said, “‘Chucked it,’’ for which happy ex- 
pression he was kept in at recess. 

Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there 
was not much solid work done by anybody. The 
trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerous 
fire-toy) was over us all. We went round de- 
formed by quantities of Chinese crackers artlessly 
concealed in our trousers-pockets; and if a boy 
whipped out his handkerchief without proper 


72 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


precaution, he was sure to let off two or three 
torpedoes. 

Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of acces- 
sory to the universal demoralization. In calling 
the school to order, he always rapped on the table 
with a heavy ruler. Under the green baize table- 
cloth, on the exact spot where he usually struck, a 
certain boy, whose name I withhold, placed a fat 
torpedo. The result was a loud explosion, which 
caused Mr. Grimshaw to look queer. Charley 
Marden was at the water-pail, at the time, and 
directed general attention to himself by stran- 
gling for several seconds and then squirting .a 
slender thread of water over the blackboard. 

Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on 
Charley, but said nothing. The real culprit (it 
wasn’t Charley Marden, but the boy whose name 
I withhold) instantly regretted his badness, and 
after school confessed the whole thing to Mr. 
Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon the 
nameless boy’s head by giving him five cents for 
the Fourth of July. If Mr. Grimshaw had caned 
this unknown youth, the punishment would not 
have been half so severe. 

On the last day of June the Captain received a 
letter from my father, enclosing five dollars “for 
my son Tom,” which enabled that young gentle- 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 73 


man to make regal preparations for the celebra- 
tion of our national independence. A portion of 
this money, two dollars, I hastened to invest in 
fireworks; the balance I put by for contingencies. 
In placing the fund in my possession, the Captain 
_ imposed one condition that dampened my ardor 
considerably — I was to buy no gunpowder. I 
might have all the snapping-crackers and tor- 
pedoes I wanted; but gunpowder was out of the 
question. 

I thought this rather hard, for all my young 
friends were provided with pistols of various 
sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly 
as large as himself, and Jack Harris — though 
he, to be sure, was a big boy — was going to have 
a real old-fashioned flintlock musket. However, 
I didn’t mean to let this drawback destroy my 
happiness. I had one charge of powder stowed 
away in the little brass pistol which I brought 
from New Orleans, and was bound to make a 
noise in the world once, if I never did again. 

It was a custom observed from time immemo- 
rial for the town’s-boys to have a bonfire on the 
Square on the midnight before the Fourth. I 
didn’t ask the Captain’s leave to attend this 
ceremony, for I had a general idea that he 
wouldn’t give it. If the Captain, I reasoned, 


74, THE STORY OF ABAD Rae 


doesn’t forbid me, I break no orders by going. 
Now this was a specious line of argument, and 
the mishaps that befell me in consequence of 
adopting it were richly deserved. 

On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very 
early, in order to disarm suspicion. I didn’t sleep 
a wink, waiting for eleven o’clock to come round; 
and I thought it never would come round, as I 
lay counting from time to time the slow strokes of 
the ponderous bell in the steeple of the Old North 
Church. At length the laggard hour arrived. 
While the clock was striking I jumped out of bed 
and began dressing. 

My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy 
sleepers, and I might have stolen downstairs and 
out at the front door undetected; but such a 
commonplace proceeding did not suit my adven- 
turous disposition. I fastened one end of a rope 
(it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins’s 
clothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, 
and cautiously climbed out on the wide pediment 
over the hall door. I had neglected to knot the 
rope; the result was, that, the moment I swung 
clear of the pediment, I descended like a flash of 
lightning, and warmed both my hands smartly. 
The rope, moreover, was four or five feet too 
short; so I got a fall that would have proved seri- 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 75 


ous had I not tumbled into the middle of one of 
the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the 
steps. 

I scrambled out of that without delay, and was 
congratulating myself on my good luck, when I 
saw by the light of the setting moon the form of 
a man leaning over the garden gate. It was one of 
the town watch, who had probably been observ- 
ing my operations with curiosity. Seeing no 
chance of escape, I put a bold face on the matter 
and walked directly up to him. 

“What on airth air you a-doin’?” asked the 
man, grasping the collar of my jacket. 

‘T live here, sir, if you please,” I replied, ‘‘and 
am going to the bonfire. I didn’t want to wake 
up the old folks, that’s all.”’ 

The man cocked his eye at me in the most ami- 
able manner, and released his hold. 

‘Boys is boys,” he muttered. He didn’t at- 
tempt to stop me as I slipped through the gate. 

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels 
and soon reached the Square, where I found 
forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in build- 
ing a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my 
hands still tingled so that I couldn’t join in the 
sport. I stood in the doorway of the Nautilus 
Bank, watching the workers, among whom I rec- 


“6 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ognized lots of my schoolmates. They looked like 
a legion of imps, coming and going in the twi- 
light, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What 
a Babel of voices it was, everybody directing 
everybody else, and everybody doing everything 
wrong! 

When all was prepared, some one applied a 
match to the sombre pile. A fiery tongue thrust 
itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole 
fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling 
beautifully. This was a signal for the boys to 
join hands and dance around the burning bar- 
rels, which they did shouting like mad creatures. 
When the fire had burnt down a little, fresh 
staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In 
the excitement of the moment I forgot my tingling © 
palms, and found myself in the thick of the ca- 
rousal. 

Before we were half ready, our combustible 
material was expended, and a disheartening kind 
of darkness settled down upon us. The boys col- 
lected together here and there in knots, consulting 
as to what should be done. It yet lacked four or 
five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in the 
humor to return to bed. I approached one of the 
groups standing near the town-pump, and dis- 
covered in the uncertain light of the dying brands 


SHOUTING MAD CREATURES 








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ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 77 


the figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry 
Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb, their faces streaked 
with perspiration and tar, and their whole ap- 
pearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs. 

‘Hullo! here’s Tom Bailey!’’ shouted Pepper 
Whitcomb; “‘he’ll join in!” 

Of course he would. The sting had gone out of 
my hands, and I was ripe for anything — none the 
less ripe for not knowing what was on the fapis. 
After whispering together for a moment, the boys 
motioned me to follow them. 

We glided out from the crowd and silently 
wended our way through a neighboring alley, at 
the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn, 
owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former days 
this was the stable of the mail-coach that ran 
between Rivermouth and Boston: When the rail- 
road superseded that primitive mode of travel, 
the lumbering vehicle was rolled into the barn, 
and there it stayed. The stage-driver, after 
prophesying the immediate downfall of the na- 
tion, died of grief and apoplexy, and the old 
coach followed in his wake as fast as it could by 
quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the 
reputation of being haunted, and I think we all 
kept very close together when we found ourselves 
standing in the black shadow cast by the tall 


78 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


gable. Here, in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare 
his plan, which was to burn the ancient stage- 
coach. 

“The old trundle-cart isn’t worth twenty-five 
cents,’ said Jack Harris, ‘‘and Ezra Wingate 
ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of 
the way. But if any fellow here doesn’t want to 
have a hand in it, let him cut and run, and keep 
a quiet tongue in his head ever after.” 

With this he pulled out the staples that held 
the rusty padlock, and the big barn door swung 
slowly open. The interior of the stable was pitch- 
dark, of course. As we made a movement to en- 
ter, a sudden scrambling, and the sound of heavy 
bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start 
back in terror. 

‘“‘Rats!’’ cried Phil Adams. 

‘‘Bats!”’ exclaimed Harry Blake. 

“Cats!” suggested Jack Harris. ‘‘Who’s 
afraid?”’ 

Well, the truth is, we were all afraid; and if the 
pole of the stage had not been lying close to the 
threshold, I don’t believe anything on earth 
would have induced us to cross it. We seized 
-hold of the pole-straps and succeeded with great 
trouble in dragging the coach out. The two fore 
wheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 79 


revolve. It was the merest skeleton of a coach. 
The cushions had long since been removed, and 
the leather hangings, where they had not crum- 
bled away, dangled in shreds from the worm- 
eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of 
phantom horses to drag them would have made 
the ghastly thing complete. 

Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood 
at the top of a very steep hill. With three boys 
to push behind, and two in front to steer, we 
started the old coach on its last trip with little 
or no difficulty. Our speed increased every mo- 
ment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlocked as 
we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged 
upon the crowd like a regiment of cavalry, scat- 
tering the people right and left. Before reaching 
the bonfire, to which some one had added several 
bushels of shavings, Jack Harris and Phil Adams, 
who were steering, dropped on the ground, and 
allowed the vehicle to pass over them, which it 
did without injuring them; but the boys who 
were clinging for dear life to the trunk-rack be- 
hind fell over the prostrate steersmen, and there 
we all lay in a heap, two or three of us quite pic- 
turesque with the nose-bleed. 

The coach, with an intuitive perception of 
what was expected of it, plunged into the centre 


80 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


of the kindling shavings, and stopped. The flames 
sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, 
which burned like tinder. At this moment a fig- 
ure was seen leaping wildly from the inside of the 
blazing coach The figure made three bounds 
towards us, and tripped over Harry Blake. It 
was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhat 
singed, and his eyebrows completely scorched off! 

Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back 
seat before we started, intending to have a neat 
little ride down hill, and a laugh at us afterwards. 
But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or 
would have been, if half a dozen watchmen had 
not suddenly pounced down upon us, as we lay 
scrambling on the ground, weak with mirth over 
Pepper’s misfortune. We were collared and 
marched off before we well knew what had hap- 
pened. 

The abrupt transition from the noise and light 
of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room in 
the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the work 
of enchantment. We stared at each other aghast. 

‘“‘Well,’’ remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly 
smile, ‘‘this zs a go!”’ 

“‘No go, I should say,” whimpered Harry 
Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the 
heavy iron-plated door. 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 8t 


‘“Never say die,’”’ muttered Phil Adams, dole- 
fully. 

The Bridewell was a small low-studded cham- 
ber built up against the rear end of the Meat 
Market, and approached from the Square by a 
narrow passageway. A portion of the room was 
partitioned off into eight cells, numbered, each 
capable of holding two persons. The cells were 
full at the time, as we presently discovered by 
seeing several hideous faces leering out at us 
through the gratings of the doors. 

A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from 
the ceiling threw a flickering light over the apart- 
ment, which contained no furniture excepting a 
couple of stout wooden benches. It was a dismal 
place by night, and only little less dismal by day, 
for the tall houses surrounding ‘‘the lock-up”’ 
prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from pen- 
etrating the ventilator over the door —a long 
narrow window opening inward and propped up 
by a piece of lath. | 

As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the 
benches, I imagine that our aspect was anything 
but cheerful. Adams and Harris looked very 
anxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just 
stopped bleeding, was mournfully carving his 
name, by sheer force of habit, on the prison bench. 


82. THE STORYJORIA BAD Ba 


‘ 


I don’t think I ever saw a more ‘“‘wrecked”’ ex- 
pression on any human countenance than Pepper 
Whitcomb’s presented. His look of natural aston- 
ishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail 
was considerably heightened by his lack of eye- 
brows. 

As for me, it was only by thinking how the late 
Baron Trenck would have conducted himself 
under similar circumstances that I was able to 
restrain my tears. 

None of us were inclined to conversation. A 
deep silence, broken now and then by a startling 
snore from the cells, reigned throughout the 
chamber. By and by Pepper Whitcomb glanced 
nervously towards Phil Adams and said, “‘ Phil, 
do you think they will — hang us?” 

‘‘Hang your grandmother!”’ returned Adams, 
impatiently; “‘what I’m afraid of is that they’ll 
keep us locked up until the Fourth is over.” 

‘“You ain’t smart ef they do!”’ cried a voice 
from one of the cells. It was a deep bass voice 
that sent a chill through me. 

‘‘Who are you?” said Jack Harris, addressing 
the cells in general; for the echoing qualities of 
the room made it difficult to locate the voice. 

‘That don’t matter,” replied the speaker, put- 
ting his face close up to the gratings of No. 3, 


ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT 83 


“but ef I was a youngster like you, free an’ easy 
outside there, this spot wouldn’t hold me long.”’ 

‘“That’sso!’’ chimed several of the prison- 
birds, wagging their heads behind the iron lat- 
tices. 

“‘Hush!”’ whispered Jack Harris, rising from his 
seat and walking on tip-toe to the door of cell 
No. 3. ‘‘What would you do?” 

“Do? Why, I'd pile them ’ere benches up agin 
that ’ere door, an’ crawl out of that ’ere winder 
in no time. That’s my adwice.”’ 

‘‘And werry good adwice it is, Jim,’ said the 
occupant of No. 5, approvingly. 

Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opinion, 
for he hastily placed the benches one on the top 
of another under the ventilator, and, climbing 
up on the highest bench, peeped out into the 
passageway. 

“Tf any gent happens to have a ninepence 
about him,”’ said the man in cell No. 3, ‘‘there’s 
a sufferin’ family here as could make use of it. 
Smallest favors gratefully received, an’ no ques- 
tions axed.”’ 

This appeal touched a new silver quarter of a 
dollar in my trousers-pocket; I fished out the coin 
from a mass of fireworks, and gave it to the pris- 
oner. He appeared to be so good-natured a fellow 


84 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


that I ventured to ask what he had done to get 
into jail. 

‘‘Intirely innocent. I was clapped in here by a 
rascally nevew as wishes to enjoy my wealth afore 
I’m dead.”’ 

“Your name, sir?’’ I inquired, with a view of 
reporting the outrage to my grandfather and hav- 
ing the injured person reinstated in society. 

‘Git out, you insolent young reptyle!’’ shouted 
the man, in a passion. 

I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of laugh- 
ter from the other cells. 

‘‘Can’t you keep still?’’ exclaimed Harris, with- 
drawing his head from the window. 

A portly watchman usually sat on a stool out- 
side the door day and night; but on this particular 
occasion, his services being required elsewhere, 
the Bridewell had been left to guard itself. 

‘‘ All clear,’’ whispered Jack Harris, as he van- 
ished through the aperture and dropped softly 
on the ground outside. We all followed him ex- 
peditiously — Pepper Whitcomb and myself get- 
ting stuck in the window for a moment in our 
frantic efforts not to be last. 

“‘Now, boys, everybody for himself!’ 





CHAPTER VIII 
THE ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH 


THE sun cast a broad column of quivering gold 
across the river at the foot of our street, just as I 
reached the doorstep of the Nutter House. Kitty 
Collins, with her dress tucked about her so that 
she looked as if she had on a pair of calico trousers, 
was washing off the sidewalk. 

“‘Arrah, you bad boy!”’ cried Kitty, leaning on 
the mop-handle, ‘‘the Capen has jist been askin’ 
for you. He’s gone uptown, now. It’s a nate 
thing you done with my clothes-line, and it’s me 
you may thank for gettin’ it out of the way be- 
fore the Capen come down.” 

The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and 
my escapade had not been discovered by the fam- 
ily; but I knew very well that the burning of the 
stage-coach, and the arrest of the boys concerned 
in the mischief, were sure to reach my grand- 
father’s ears sooner or later. , 

“Well, Thomas,” said the old gentleman, an 


86 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


hour or so afterwards, beaming upon me benevo- 
Jently across the breakfast-table, “‘ you didn’t wait 
to be called this morning.” 

“No, sir,”” I replied, growing very warm, “I 
took a little run uptown to see what was going 
on.” 

I didn’t say anything about the little run I took 
home again! 

‘They had quite a time on the Square last 
night,’’ remarked Captain Nutter, looking up 
from the ‘‘Rivermouth Barnacle,’’ which was 
always placed beside his coffee-cup at breakfast. 

I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on 
end. 


9 


“Quite a time,’ continued my grandfather. 
‘Some boys broke into Ezra Wingate’s barn and 
carried off the old stage-coach. The young ras- 
cals! I do believe they’d burn up the whole town 
if they had their way.”’ 


With this he resumed the paper. After a long 


silence he exclaimed, ‘‘Hullo!’’— upon which 
I nearly fell off the chair. 
‘“““Miscreants unknown,’”’ read my _ grand- 


father, following the paragraph with his fore- 


finger; “‘‘escaped from the Bridewell, leaving 
no clue to their identity, except the letter H, cut 


on one of the benches.’ ‘Five dollars reward 


ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH 87 


offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.’ 
Sho! I hope Wingate will catch them.” 

I don’t see how I continued to live, for on hear- 
ing this the breath went entirely out of my body. 
I beat a retreat from the room as soon as I could, 
and flew to the stable with a misty intention of 
mounting Gypsy and escaping from the place. 
I was pondering what steps to take, when Jack 
Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard. 

“‘I say,” said Harris, as blithe as a lark, ‘“‘has 
old Wingate been here?’”’ 

“Been here?”’ I cried. ‘I should hope not!”’ 

“The whole thing’s out, you know,’ said Har- 
ris, pulling Gypsy’s forelock over her eyes and 
blowing playfully into her nostrils. 

“You don’t mean it!”’ I gasped. 

“Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate three 
dollars apiece. He’ll make rather a good spec out 
of it.” 

‘But how did he discover that we were the — 
the miscreants?’’ I asked, quoting mechanically 
from the “ Rivermouth Barnacle.”’ 

“Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound 
him! He’s been trying to sell it any time these 
ten years. Now he has sold it to us. When he 
found that we had slipped out of the Meat Mar: 
ket he went right off and wrote the advertise- 


88 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ment offering five dollars reward, though he knew 
well enough who had taken the coach, for he came 
round to my father’s house before the paper was 
printed to talk the matter over. Wasn't the gover- 
nor mad, though! But it’s all settled, I tell you. 
We’re to pay Wingate fifteen dollars for the old 
go-cart, which he wanted to sell the other day for 
seventy-five cents, and couldn’t. It’s a downright 
swindle. But the funny part of it is to come.” 

‘Oh, there’s a funny part to it, is there?”’ I re- 
marked bitterly. 

‘“Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the ad- 
vertisement, he knew it was Harry Blake who cut 
that letter H on the bench; so off he rushes up to 
Wingate — kind of him, wasn’t it? — and claims 
the reward. ‘Too late, young man,’ says old Win- 
gate, ‘the culprits has been discovered.’ You see 
Sly-Boots hadn’t any intention of paying that 
five dollars.” 

Jack Harris’s statement lifted a weight from 
my bosom. The article in the ‘‘ Rivermouth Bar- 
nacle’’ had placed the affair before me in a new 
light. I had thoughtlessly committed a grave 
offence. Though the property in question was 
valueless, we were clearly wrong in destroying it. 
At the same time Mr. Wingate had tacitly sanc- 
tioned the act by not preventing it when he might 


ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH = 89 


easily have done so. He had allowed his property 
to be destroyed in order that he might realize a 
large profit. 

Without waiting to hear more, I went straight 
to Captain Nutter, and, laying my remaining 
three dollars on his knee, confessed my share in 
the previous night’s transaction. 

The Captain heard me through in profound 
silence, pocketed the bank-notes, and walked off 
without speaking a word. He had punished me 
in his own whimsical fashion at the breakfast- 
table, for, at the very moment he was harrowing 
up my soul by reading the extracts from the 
““Rivermouth Barnacle,’’ he not only knew all 
about the bonfire, but had paid Ezra Wingate 
his three dollars. Such was the duplicity of that 
aged impostor! 

I think Captain Nutter was justified in retain- 
ing my pocket-money, as additional punishment, 
though the possession of it later in the day would 
have got me out of a difficult position, as the 
reader will see further on. 

I returned with a light heart and a large piece 
of punk to my friends in the stable-yard, where 
we celebrated the termination of our trouble by 
setting off two packs of fire-crackers in an empty 
wine-cask. They made a prodigious racket, but 


90 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


failed somehow to fully express my feelings. The 
little brass pistol in my bedroom suddenly oc- 
curred to me. It had been loaded I don’t know 
how many months, long before I left New Or. 
leans, and now was the time, if ever, to fire it off. 
Muskets, blunderbusses, and pistols were banging 
away lively all over town, and the smell of gun- 
powder, floating on the air, set me wild to add 
something respectable to the universal din. 

When the pistol was produced, Jack Harris 
examined the rusty cap and prophesied that it 
would not explode. 

‘Never mind,”’ said I, “‘let’s try it.” 

I had fired the pistol once, secretly, in New Or- 
leans, and, remembering the noise it gave birth 
to on. that occasion, I shut both eyes tight as I 
pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on the 
cap with a dull, dead sound. Then Harris tried 
it; then Charley Marden; then I took it again, 
and after three or four trials was on the point of 
giving it up as a bad job, when the obstinate 
thing went off with a tremendous explosion, 
nearly jerking my arm from the socket. The 
smoke cleared away, and there I stood with the 
stock of the pistol clutched convulsively in my 
hand — the barrel, lock, trigger, and ramrod hav- 
ing vanished into thin air. 


ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH . g1 


“Are you hurt?” cried the boys, in one breath. 

“‘N—no,”’ I replied, dubiously, for the con- 
cussion had bewildered me a little. 

When I realized the nature of the calamity, my 
grief was excessive. I can’t imagine what led me 
to do so ridiculous a thing, but I gravely buried 
the remains of my beloved pistol in our back gar- 
den, and erected over the mound a slate tablet to 
the effect that ‘‘ Mr. Barker, formerly of new or- 
leans, was Killed accidentally on the Fourth of 
july, 18—in the 2nd year of his Age.” ! Binny 
Wallace, arriving on the spot just after the dis- 
aster, and Charley Marden (who enjoyed the 
obsequies immensely), acted with me as chief 
mourners. I, for my part, was a very sincere 
one. 

As I turned away in a disconsolate mood from 
the garden, Charley Marden remarked that he 
shouldn’t be surprised if the pistol-butt took root 
and grew into a mahogany-tree or something. 
He said he once planted an old musket-stock, and 
shortly afterwards a lot of shoots sprung up! Jack 
Harris laughed; but neither I nor Binny Wallace 
saw Charley’s wicked joke. 


1 This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped piece of 
slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter House, together 
with the pistol-butt itself, which was subsequently dug up for 
a post-mortem examination. 


s 


92 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


We were now joined by Pepper Whitcomb, 
Fred Langdon, and several other desperate char- 
acters, on their way to the Square, which was 
always a busy place when public festivities were 
going on. Feeling that I was still in disgrace with 
the Captain, I thought it politic to ask his con- 
sent before accompanying the boys. 

He gave it with some hesitation, advising me 
to be careful not to get in front of the firearms. 
Once he put his fingers mechanically into his 
vest-pocket and half drew forth some dollar-bills, 
then slowly thrust them back again as his sense 
of justice overcame his genial disposition. I guess 
it cut the old gentleman to the heart to be obliged 
to keep me out of my pocket-money. I know it 
did me. However, as I was passing through the 
hall, Miss Abigail, with a very severe cast of 
countenance, slipped a brand-new quarter into 
my hand. We had silver currency in those days, 
thank Heaven! 

Great were the bustle and confusion on the 
Square. By the way, I don’t know why they 
called this large open space a square, unless be- 
cause it was an oval —an oval formed by the 
confluence of half a dozen streets, now thronged 
by crowds of smartly dressed town’s-people and 
country folks; for Rivermouth on the Fourth was 


ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH — 93 


the centre of attraction to the inhabitants of the 
neighboring villages. 

On one side of the Square were twenty or thirty 
booths arranged in a semi-circle, gay with little 
flags and seductive with lemonade, ginger-beer, 
and seed-cakes. Here and there were tables at 
which could be purchased the smaller sort of 
fireworks, such as pin-wheels, serpents, double- 
headers, and punk warranted not to go out. 
Many of the adjacent houses made a pretty dis- 
play of bunting, and across each of the streets 
opening on the Square was an arch of spruce and 
evergreen, blossoming all over with patriotic 
mottoes and paper roses. 

It was a noisy, merry, bewildering scene as we 
came upon the ground. The incessant rattle of 
small arms, the booming of the twelve-pounder 
firing on the Mill Dam, and the silvery clangor of 
the church-bells ringing simultaneously — not to 
mention an ambitious brass-band that was blow- 
ing itself to pieces on a balcony — were enough 
to drive one distracted. We amused ourselves for 
an hour or two, darting in and out among the 
crowd and setting off our crackers. At one o’clock 
the Honorable Hezekiah Elkins mounted a plat- 
form in the middle of the Square and delivered 
an oration, to which his “‘feller-citizens”’ didn’t 


94 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


pay much attention, having all they could do to 
dodge the squibs that were set loose upon them 
by mischievous boys stationed on the surround- 
ing housetops. 

Our little party which had picked up recruits 
here and there, not being swayed by eloquence, 
withdrew to a booth on the outskirts of the crowd, 
where we regaled ourselves with root beer at two 
cents a glass. I recollect being much struck by 
the placard surmounting this tent: 


Root BEER 
SOLD HERE. 


It seemed to me the perfection of pith and poetry. 
What could be more terse? Not a word to spare, 
and yet everything fully expressed. Rhyme and 
rhythm faultless. It was a delightful poet who 
made those verses. As for the beer itself — that, 
I think, must have been made from the root of all 
evil! A single glass of it insured an uninterrupted 
pain for twenty-four hours. 

The influence of my liberality working on Char- 
ley Marden — for it was I who paid for the beer — 
he presently invited us all to take an ice-cream 
with him at Pettingil’s saloon. Pettingil was the 
Delmonico of Rivermouth. He furnished ices 


ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH — 95 


and confectionery for aristocratic balls and par- 
ties, and didn’t disdain to officiate as leader of 
the orchestra at the same; for Pettingil played on 
the violin, as Pepper Whitcomb described it, ‘‘like 
Old Scratch.”’ 

Pettingil’s confectionery store was on the cor- 
ner of Willow and High Streets. The saloon, sep- 
arated from the shop by a flight of three steps 
leading to a door hung with faded red drapery, 
had about it an air of mystery and seclusion quite 
delightful. Four windows, also draped, faced the 
side-street, affording an unobstructed view of 
Marm Hatch’s back yard, where a number of 
inexplicable garments on a clothes-line were al- 
ways to be seen careering in the wind. 

There was a lull just then in the ice-cream busi- 
ness, it being dinner-time, and we found the sa- 
loon unoccupied. When we had seated ourselves 
around the largest marble-topped table, Charley 
Marden in a manly voice ordered twelve sixpenny 
ice-creams, ‘‘strawberry and verneller mixed.” 

It was a magnificent sight, those twelve chilly 
glasses entering the room on a waiter, the red and 
white custard rising from each glass like a church- 
steeple, and the spoon-handle shooting up from 
the apex like a spire. I doubt if a person of the 
nicest palate could have distinguished, with his 


96 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


eyes shut, which was the vanilla and which the 
strawberry; but if I could at this moment obtain 
a cream tasting as that did, I would give five dol- 
lars for a very small quantity. 

We fell to with a will, and so evenly balanced 
were our capabilities that we finished our creams 
together, the spoons clinkiag in the glasses like 
one spoon. 

“‘Let’s have some more!”’ cried Charley Mar- 
den, with the air of Aladdin ordering up a fresh 
hogshead of pearls and rubies. ‘Tom Bailey, tell 
Pettingil to send in another round.” 

Could I credit my ears? I looked at him to see 
if he were in earnest. He meant it. In a moment 
more I was leaning over the counter giving direc- 
tions for a second supply. Thinking it would 
make no difference to such a gorgeous young 
sybarite as Marden, I took the liberty of ordering 
ninepenny creams this time. 

On returning to the saloon, what was my hor- 
ror at finding it empty! 

There were the twelve cloudy glasses, standing 
in a circle on the sticky marble slab, and not a 
boy to be seen. A pair of hands letting go their 
hold on the window-sill outside explained mat- 
ters. I had been made a victim. 

I couldn’t stay and face Pettingil, whose pep- 


ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH 97 


pery temper was well known among the boys. I 
hadn’t a cent in the world to appease him. What 
should I do? I heard the clink of approaching 
glasses — the ninepenny creams. I rushed to the 
nearest window. It was only five feet to the 
ground. I threw myself out as if I had been an 
old hat. 

Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down 
High Street, through Willow, and was turning 
into Brierwood Place when the sound of several 
voices, calling to me in distress, stopped my 
progress. 

“Look out, you fool! the mine! the mine!’’ 
yelled the warning voices. 

Several men and boys were standing at the 
head of the street, making insane gestures to me 
to avoid something. But I saw no mine, only in 
the middle of the road in front of me was a com- 
mon flour-barrel, which, as I gazed at it, sud- 
denly rose into the air with a terrific explosion. I 
felt myself thrown violently off my feet. I re- 
member nothing else, excepting that, as I went 
up, I caught a momentary glimpse of Ezra 
Wingate leering through his shop-window like an 
avenging spirit. 

The mine that had wrought me woe was not 
properly a mine at all, but merely a few ounces 


98 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel 
and fired with a slow-match. Boys who didn’t 
happen to have pistols or cannon generally burnt 
their powder in this fashion. 

For an account of what followed I am indebted 
to hearsay, for I was insensible when the people 
picked me up and carried me home on a shutter 
borrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil’s saloon. 
I was supposed to be killed, but happily (happily 
for me at least) I was merely stunned. I lay ina 
semi-unconscious state until eight o’clock that 
night, when I attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, 
who watched by the bedside, put her ear down 
to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable 
words: 

“Strawberry and verneller mixed!”’ 

“‘Mercy on us! What is the boy saying?” cried 
Miss Abigail. 

‘‘ ROOTBEERSOLDHERE!”’ 


? 
© ete 
‘sku | 


“Yds 
, ELQZZB Fr 
(| sik. Ba DES, | $ 
\ et SGez= = 4 vy 
Be 74: «eee SHEA eee 
. iis tienes Z 3 





CHAPTER IX 
I BECOME AN R.M.C. 


In the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently 
from my injuries to attend school, where, for a 
little while, I was looked upon as a hero, on ac- 
count of having been blown up. What don’t we 
make a hero of ? The distraction which prevailed 
in the classes the week preceding the Fourth had 
subsided, and nothing remained to indicate the 
recent festivities, excepting a noticeable want of 
eyebrows on the part of Pepper Whitcomb and 
myself. 

In August we had two weeks’ vacation. It was 
about this time that I became a member of the 
Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society com- 
posed of twelve of the Temple Grammar School 
boys. This was an honor to which I had long 
aspired, but, being a new boy, I was not admitted 
to the fraternity until my character had fully 
developed itself. 

It was a very select society, the object of which 


1o0o THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


I never fathomed, though I was an active member 
of the body during the remainder of my residence 
at Rivermouth, and at one time held the onerous 
position of F.C. — First Centipede. Each of the 
elect wore a copper cent (some occult association 
being established between a cent-piece and a cen- 
tipede!) suspended by a string round his neck. 
The medals were worn next the skin, and it was 
while bathing one day at Grave Point, with Jack 
Harris and Fred Langdon, that I had my curi- 
osity roused to the highest pitch by a sight of 
these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained 
the existence of a boys’ club, of course I was 
ready to die to join it. And eventually I was 
allowed to join. 

The initiation ceremony took place in Fred 
Langdon’s barn, where I was submitted to a 
series of trials not calculated to soothe the nerves 
of a timorous boy. Before being led to the Grotto 
of Enchantment — such was the modest title 
given to the loft over my friend’s woodhouse — 
my hands were securely pinioned, and my eyes 
covered with a thick silk handkerchief. At the 
head of the stairs I was told in an unrecognizable, 
husky voice, that it was not yet too late to retreat 
if I felt myself physically too weak to undergo 
the necessary tortures. I replied that I was not 


I BECOME AN R.M.C. IOI 


too weak, in a tone which I intended to be reso- 
lute, but which, in spite of me, seemed to come 
from the pit of my stomach. 

“It is well!’”’ said the husky voice. 

I did not feel so sure about that; but, having 
made up my mind to be a Centipede, a Centi- 
pede I was bound to be. Other boys had passed 
through the ordeal and lived, why should not I? 

A prolonged silence followed this preliminary 
examination, and I was wondering what would 
come next, when a pistol fired off close by my ear 
deafened me for a moment. The unknown voice 
then directed me to take ten steps forward and 
stop at the word halt. I took ten steps, and halted. 

“‘Stricken mortal,’ said a second husky voice, 
more husky, if possible, than the first, “if you 
had advanced another inch, you would have dis- 
appeared down an abyss three thousand feet 
deep!”’ 

I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece 
of information. A prick from some two-pronged 
instrument, evidently a pitchfork, gently checked 
my retreat. I was then conducted to the brink of 
several other precipices, and ordered to step over 
many dangerous chasms, where the result would 
have been instant death if I had committed the 
least mistake. I have neglected to say that my 


ro2. THEWTIORY- ORDA BAD EGF 


movements were accompanied by dismal groans 
from different parts of the grotto. 

Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what ap- 
peared to me an incalculable height. Here I stood 
breathless while the by-laws were read aloud. A 
more extraordinary code of laws never came from 
the brain of man. The penalties attached to the 
abject being who should reveal any of the secrets 
of the society were enough to make the blood run 
cold. A second pistol-shot was heard, the some- 
thing I stood on sunk with a crash beneath my 
feet, and I fell two miles, as nearly as I could com- 
pute it. At the same instant the handkerchief 
was whisked from my eyes, and I found myself 
standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by 
twelve masked figures fantastically dressed. One 
of the conspirators was really appalling with a 
tin sauce-pan on his head, and a tiger-skin sleigh- 
robe thrown over his shoulders. I scarcely need 
say that there were no vestiges to be seen of the 
fearful gulfs over which I had passed so cautiously. 
My ascent had been to the top of the hogshead, 
and my descent to the bottom thereof. Holding 
one another by the hand, and chanting a low 
dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about me. 
This concluded the ceremony. With a merry 
shout the boys threw off their masks, and I 


~ 


I BECOME AN R.M.C: 103 


was declared a regularly installed member of 
the R.M.C. 

I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of 
the club, for these initiations, as you may imag- 
ine, were sometimes very comical spectacles, es- 
pecially when the aspirant for centipedal honors 
happened to be of a timid disposition. If he 
showed the slightest terror, he was certain to be 
tricked unmercifully. One of our subsequent de- 
vices — a humble invention of my own — was to 
request the blindfolded candidate to put out his 
tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would 
say, in a low tone, as if not intended for the ear 
of the victim, “‘Diabolus, fetch me the red-hot 
iron!’’ The expedition with which that tongue 


would disappear was simply ridiculous. 


Our meetings were held in various barns, at no 
stated periods, but as circumstances suggested. 
Any member had a right to call a meeting. Each 
boy who failed to report himself was fined one 
cent. Whenever a member had reasons for think- 
ing that another member would be unable to at- 
tend, he called a meeting. For instance, imme- 
diately on learning the death of Harry Blake’s 
great-grandfather, I issued a call. By these sim- 
ple and ingenious measures we kept our treasury 
in a flourishing condition,*sometimes having on 


hand as much as a dollar and a quarter. 


104 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


I have said that the society had no especial 
object. It is true, there was a tacit understanding 
among us that the Centipedes were to stand by 
one another on all occasions, though I don’t re- 
member that they did; but further than this we 
had no purpose, unless it was to accomplish as a 
body the same amount of mischief which we were 
sure to do as individuals. To mystify the staid 
and slow-going Rivermouthians was our frequent 
pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a 
reputation among the townsfolk, that we were 
credited with having a large finger in whatever 
went amiss in the place. 

One morning, about a week after my admission 
into the secret order, the quiet citizens awoke to 
find that the sign-boards of all the principal streets 
had changed places during the night. People who 
went trustfully to sleep in Currant Square opened 
their eyes in Honeysuckle Terrace. Jones’s 
Avenue at the north end had suddenly become 
Walnut Street, and Peanut Street was nowhere 
to be found. Confusion reigned. The town au- 
thorities took the matter in hand without delay, 
and six of the Temple Grammar School boys 
were summoned to appear before Justice Clap- 
ham. 

Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather 


I BECOME AN R.M.C. 105 


all knowledge of the transaction, I disappeared 
from the family circle, and was not apprehended 
until late in the afternoon, when the Captain 
dragged me ignominiously from the haymow and 
conducted me, more dead than alive, to the of- 
fice of Justice Clapham. Here I encountered five 
other pallid culprits, who had been fished out 
of divers coal-bins, garrets, and chicken-coops, 
to answer the demands of the outraged laws. 
(Charley Marden had hidden himself in a pile of 
gravel behind his father’s house, and looked like 
a recently exhumed mummy.) 

There was not the least evidence against us, 
and, indeed, we were wholly innocent of the of- 
fence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, had 
been played by a party of soldiers stationed at 
the fort in the harbor. We were indebted for our 
arrest to Master Conway, who had slyly dropped 
a hint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, 
to the effect that ‘‘young Bailey and his five 
cronies could tell something about them signs.”’ 
When he was called upon to make good his as- 
sertion, he was considerably more terrified than 
the Centipedes, though they were ready to sink 
into their shoes. 

At our next meeting it was unanimously re- 
solved that Conway’s animosity should not be 


1066 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform 
against us in the stage-coach business; he had 
volunteered to carry Pettingil’s “‘little bill’’ for 
twenty-four ice-creams to Charley Marden’s fa- 
ther; and now he had caused us to be arraigned 
before Justice Clapham on a charge equally 
groundless and painful. After much noisy dis- 
cussion a plan of retaliation was agreed upon. 

There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in 
the town, by the name of Meeks. It was gener- 
ally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague desire 
to get married, but, being a shy and timorous 
youth, lacked the moral courage to do sw. It was 
also well known that the Widow Conway had not 
buried her heart with the late lamented. As to 
her shyness, that was not so clear. Indeed, her 
attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she 
might have been, were of a nature not to be mis- 
understood, and were not misunderstood by any 
one but Mr. Meeks himself. 

The widow carried on a dress-making estab- 
lishment at her residence on the corner opposite 
Meeks’s drug-store, and kept a wary eye on all 
the young ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibbs’s Fe- 
male Institute who patronized the shop for soda- 
water, acid-drops, and slate-pencils. In the after. 
noon the widow was usually seen seated, smartly 


I BECOME AN R.M.C. 107 


dressed, at her window upstairs, casting destruc- 
tive glances across the street — the artificial roses 
in her cap and her whole languishing manner say- 
ing as plainly as a label on a prescription, ‘‘To be 
Taken Immediately!’’ But Mr. Meeks didn’t 
take. 

The lady’s fondness and the gentleman’s blind- 
ness were topics ably handled at every sewing- 
circle in the town. It was through these two luck- 
less individuals that we proposed to strike a blow 
at the common enemy. To kill less than three 
birds with one stone did not suit our sanguinary 
purpose. We disliked the widow, not so much 
for her sentimentality as for being the mother of 
Bill Conway; we disliked Mr. Meeks, not be- 
cause he was insipid, like his own syrups, but be- 
cause the widow loved him; Bill Conway we hated 
for himself. 

Late one dark Saturday night in September 
we carried our plan into effect. On the following 
morning, as the orderly citizens wended their 
way to church past the widow’s abode, their sober 
faces relaxed at beholding over her front door the 
well-known gilt Mortar and Pestle which usually 
stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner; 
while the passers on that side of the street were 
equally amused and scandalized at seeing a plac- 


108 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ard bearing the following announcement tacked 
to the druggist’s window-shutters: 


The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I 
should be sorry to defend) was recognized at 
once. It spread like wildfire over the town, and, 
though the mortar and the placard were speedily 
removed, our triumph was complete. The whole 
community was on the broad grin, and our par- 
ticipation in the affair seemingly unsuspected. 

It was those wicked soldiers at the fort! 





CHAPTER X 
I FIGHT CONWAY 


THERE was one person, however, who cherished a 
strong suspicion that the Centipedes had had a 
hand in the business; and that person was Con- 
way. His red hair seemed to change to a livelier 
red, and his sallow cheeks to a deeper sallow, as 
we glanced at him stealthily over the tops of our 
slates the next day in school. He knew we were 
watching him, and made sundry mouths and 
scowled in the most threatening way over his 
sums. 

Conway had an accomplishment peculiarly his 
own — that of throwing his thumbs out of joint 
at will. Sometimes while absorbed in study, or on 
becoming nervous at recitation, he performed the 
feat unconsciously. Throughout this entire morn- 
ing his thumbs were observed to be in a chronic 
state of dislocation, indicating great mental agi- 
tation on the part of the owner. We fully expected 


110° THE STORY OF ABAD bw 


an outbreak from him at recess; but the intermis- 
sion passed off tranquilly, somewhat to our dis- 
appointment. 

At the close of the afternoon session it hap- 
pened that Binny Wallace and myself, having got 
swamped in our Latin exercise, were detained in 
school for the purpose of refreshing our memories 
with a page of Mr. Andrews’s perplexing irregular 
verbs. Binny Wallace, finishing his task first, 
was dismissed. I followed shortly after, and, on 
stepping into the playground, saw my little friend 
plastered, as it were, up against the fence, and 
Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver 
a blow on the upturned, unprotected face, whose 
gentleness would have stayed any arm but a 
coward’s. 

Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, 
was leaning against the pump lazily enjoying the 
sport; but on seeing me sweep across the yard, 
whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, 
he called out lustily, ‘‘Lay low, Conway! Here’s 
young Bailey!” 

Conway turned just in time to catch on his 
shoulder the blow intended for his head. He 
reached forward one of his long arms — he had 
arms like a windmill, that boy —and, grasping me 
by the hair, tore out quite a respectable handful. 


I FIGHT CONWAY III 


The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not the 
tears of defeat; they were merely the involuntary 
tribute which Nature paid to the departed tresses. 

In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, 
and I stood on guard, resting lightly on my right 
leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily on Con- 
way’s — in all of which I was faithfully following 
the instructions of Phil Adams, whose father sub- 
scribed to a sporting journal. 

Conway also threw himself into a defensive 
attitude, and there we were, glaring at each other, 
motionless, neither of us disposed to risk an at- 
tack, but both on the alert to resist one. There 
is no telling how long we might have remained in 
that absurd position, had we not been interrupted. 

It was a custom with the larger pupils to return 
to the playground after school, and play baseball 
until sundown. The town authorities had pro- 
hibited ball-playing on the Square, and, there 
being no other available place, the boys fell back 
perforce on the school-yard. Just at this crisis a 
dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, 
seeing at a glance the belligerent status of Con- 
way and myself, dropped bat and ball, and rushed 
to the spot where we stood. 

“Ts it a fight?’’ asked Phil Adams, who saw by 
our freshness that we had not yet got to work. 


112 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


‘Yes, it’s a fight,” I answered, ‘‘unless Conway 
will ask Wallace’s pardon, promise never to hec- 
tor me in future — and put back my hair!” 

This last condition was rather a staggerer. 

‘‘T shan’t do nothing of the sort,’’ said Conway, 
sulkily. 

“Then the thing must go on,’’ said Adams, with 
dignity. ‘‘Rodgers, as I understand it, is your 
second, Conway? Bailey, come here. What’s the 
row about?” 

“He was thrashing Binny Wallace.” 

‘‘No, I wasn’t,” interrupted Conway; ‘‘but I 
was going to, because he knows who put Meeks’s 
mortar over our door. And I know well enough 
who did it; it was that sneaking little mulatter!”’ 
— pointing at me. 

‘Oh, by George!”’ I cried, reddening at the in- 
sult. 

‘*Cool is the word,’’ said Adams, as he bound 
a handkerchief round my head, and carefully 
tucked away the long straggling locks that offered 
a tempting advantage to the enemy. ‘‘Who ever 
heard of a fellow with such a head of hair going 
into action!’’ muttered Phil, twitching the hand- 
kerchief to ascertain if it were securely tied. He 
then loosened my gallowses (braces), and buckled 
them tightly above my hips. ‘‘ Now, then, ban- 
tam, never say die!”’ 


I FIGHT CONWAY 113 


Conway regarded these business-like prepara- 
tions with evident misgiving, for he called Rodg- 
ers to his side, and had himself arrayed in a simi- 
lar manner, though his hair was cropped so close 
that you couldn’t have taken hold of it with a 
pair of tweezers. 

‘‘Is your man ready?”’ asked Phil Adams, ad- 
dressing Rodgers. 

‘“‘Ready!’’ 

‘‘Keep your back to the gate, Tom,’’ whispered 
Phil in my ear, ‘“‘and you’ll have the sun in his 
eyes.” 

Behold us once more face to face, like David 
and the Philistine. Look at us as long as you 
may; for this is all you shall see of the combat. 
According to my thinking, the hospital teaches a 
better lesson than the battle-field. I will tell you 
about my black eye, and my swollen lip, if you 
will; but not a word of the fight. 

You'll get no description of it from me, simply 
because I think it would prove very poor reading, 
and not because I consider my revolt against 
Conway’s tyranny unjustifiable. 

I had borne Conway’s persecutions for many 
months with lamb-like patience. I might have 
shielded myself by appealing to Mr. Grimshaw; 
but no boy in the Temple Grammar School could 


114) ‘LHE STORY OF Ay BAD B@a 


do that without losing caste. Whether this was 
just or not doesn’t matter a pin, since it was so — 
a traditionary law of the place. The personal 
inconvenience I suffered from my tormentor was 
nothing to the pain he inflicted on me indirectly 
by his persistent cruelty to little Binny Wallace. 
I should have lacked the spirit of a hen if I had 
not resented it finally. I am glad that I faced 
Conway, and asked no favors, and got rid of him 
forever. I am glad that Phil Adams taught me 
to box, and I say to all youngsters: Learn to box, 
to ride, to pull an oar, and to swim. The occasion 
may come round, when a decent proficiency in 
one or the rest of these accomplishments will be 
of service to you. 

In one of the best books! ever written for boys 
are these words: 


Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and 
football. Not one of you will be the worse, but very 
much the better, for learning to box well. Should you 
never have to use it in earnest, there’s no exercise in 
the world so good for the temper, and for the muscles 
of the back and legs. 

As for fighting, keep out of it, if you can, by all 
means. When the time comes, if ever it should, that 
you have to say “Yes’’ or ‘“No”’ to a challenge to 
fight, say ““No”’ if you can — only take care you make 
it plain to yourself why you say “No.” It’s a proof 
of the highest courage, if done from true Christian 


1 Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby. 


I FIGHT CONWAY 115 


motives. It’s quite right and justifiable, if done from 
a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But 
don’t say ‘‘No”’ because you fear a licking and say or 
think it’s because you fear God, for that’s neither 
Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight it out; 
and don’t give in while you can stand and see. 


And don’t give in when you can’t! say I. For 
I could stand very little, and see not at all 
(having pummelled the school-pump for the last 
twenty seconds), when Conway retired from the 
field. As Phil Adams stepped up to shake hands 
with me, he received a telling blow in the stom- 
ach; for all the fight was not out of me yet, and I 
mistook him for a new adversary. 

Convinced of my error, I accepted his congratu- 
lations, with those of the other boys, blandly and 
blindly. I remember that Binny Wallace wanted 
to give me his silver pencil-case. The gentle soul 
had stood throughout the contest with his face 
turned to the fence, suffering untold agony. 

A good wash at the pump, and a cold key ap- 
plied to my eye, refreshed me amazingly. Es- 
corted by two or three of the schoolfellows, I 
walked home through the pleasant autumn twi- 
light, battered but triumphant. As I went along, 
my cap cocked on one side to keep the chilly air 
from my eye, I felt that I was not only following 
my nose, but following it so closely, that I was in 


116 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


some danger of treading on it. I seemed to have 
nose enough for the whole party. My left cheek, 
also, was puffed out like a dumpling. I couldn’t 
help saying to myself, “If this is victory, how 
about that other fellow?”’ 

“Tom,” said Harry Blake, hesitating. 

“Well?” 

“Did you see Mr. Grimshaw looking out of the 
recitation-room window just as we left the yard?”’ 

‘“No; was he, though?”’ 

‘‘T am sure of it.” 

‘Then he must have seen all the row.” 

“‘Shouldn’t wonder.” 

‘*No, he didn’t,”’ broke in Adams, “‘or he would 
have stopped it short metre; but I guess he saw 
you pitching into the pump — which you did 
uncommonly strong — and of course he smelt 
mischief directly.” 

‘Well, it can’t be helped now,” I reflected. 

‘*__ As the monkey said when he fell out of the 
cocoanut-tree,’’ added Charley Marden, trying to 
make me laugh. 

It was early candle-light when we reached the 
house. Miss Abigail, opening the front door, 
started back at my hilarious appearance. I tried 
to smile upon her sweetly, but the smile, rippling 
over my swollen cheek, and dying away like a 


I FIGHT CONWAY 117 


spent wave on my nose, produced an expression 
of which Miss Abigail declared she had never seen 
the like excepting on the face of a Chinese idol. 

She hustled me unceremoniously into the pres- 
ence of my grandfather in the sitting-room. Cap- 
tain Nutter, as the recognized professional war- 
rior of our family, could not consistently take me 
to task for fighting Conway; nor was he disposed 
to do so; for the Captain was well aware of the 
long-continued provocation I had endured. 

“‘Ah, you rascal!”’ cried the old gentleman, 
after hearing my story, ‘‘just like me when I was 
young — always in one kind of trouble or another. 
I believe it runs in the family.” 

‘“‘T think,” said Miss Abigail, without the faint- 
est expression on her countenance, ‘‘that a table- 
_ spoonful of hot-dro—”’ 

The Captain interrupted Miss Abigail peremp- 
torily, directing her to make a shade out of card- 
board and black silk, to tie over my eye. Miss 
Abigail must have been possessed with the idea 
that I had taken up pugilism as a profession, for 
she turned out no fewer than six of these blinders. 

‘““They’ll be handy to have in the house,”’ says 
Miss Abigail, grimly. 

Of course, so great a breach of discipline was 
not to be passed over by Mr. Grimshaw. He had, 


118 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


as we suspected, witnessed the closing scene of the 
fight from the school-room window, and the next 
morning, after prayers, I was not wholly unpre- 
pared when Master Conway and myself were 
called up to the desk for examination. Conway, 
with a piece of court-plaster in the shape of a 
Maltese cross on his right cheek, and I with the 
silk patch over my left eye, caused a general titter 
through the room. 

‘“‘Silence!’’ said Mr. Grimshaw, sharply. 

As the reader is already familiar with the lead- 
ing points in the case of Bailey versus Conway, I 
shall not report the trial further than to say that 
Adams, Marden, and several other pupils testi- 
fied to the fact that Conway had imposed on me 
ever since my first day at the Temple School. 
Their evidence also went to show that Conway 
was a quarrelsome character generally. Bad for 
Conway. Seth Rodgers, on the part of his friend, 
proved that I had struck the first blow. That 
was bad for me. 

“If you please, sir,’ said Binny Wallace, hold- 
ing up his hand for permission to speak, ‘‘ Bailey 
didn’t fight on his own account; he fought on my 
account, and, if you please, sir, I am the boy to 
be blamed, for I was the cause of the trouble.” 

This drew out the story of Conway’s harsh 


I FIGHT CONWAY 119 


treatment of the smaller boys. As Binny related 
the wrongs of his playfellows, saying very little 
of his own grievances, I noticed that Mr. Grim- 
shaw’s hand, unknown to himself perhaps, rested 
lightly from time to time on Wallace’s sunny 
hair. The examination finished, Mr. Grimshaw 
leaned on the desk thoughtfully for a moment, 
and then said: 

‘‘Every boy in this school knows that it is 
against the rules to fight. If one boy maltreats 
another, within school-bounds, or within school- 
hours, that is a matter for me to settle. The case 
should be laid before me. I disapprove of tale- 
bearing, I never encourage it in the slightest 
degree; but when one pupil systematically perse- 
cutes a schoolmate, it is the duty of some head- 
boy to inform me. No pupil has a right to take 
the law into his own hands. If there is any fight- 
ing to be done, I am the person to be consulted. I 
disapprove of boys’ fighting; it is unnecessary 
and un-Christian. In the present instance, I con- 
sider every large boy in this school at fault; but 
as the offence is one of omission rather than com- 
mission, my punishment must rest only on the 
two boys convicted of misdemeanor. Conway 
loses his recess for a month, and Bailey has a page 
added to his Latin lessons for the next four reci- 


120 THE STORY OF A BAD BO® 


tations. I now request Bailey and Conway to 
shake hands in the presence of the school, and 
acknowledge their regret at what has occurred.” 

Conway and I approached each other slowly 
and cautiously, as if we were bent upon another 
hostile collision. We clasped hands in the tamest 
manner imaginable, and Conway mumbled, “I’m 
sorry I fought with you.” 

“I think you are,” I replied, dryly, ‘‘and I’m 
sorry I had to thrash you.”’ 

‘You can go to your seats,’ said Mr. Grim- 
shaw, turning his face aside to hide a smile. I am 
sure my apology was a very good one. 

I never had any more trouble with Conway. 
He and his shadow, Seth Rodgers, gave me a wide 
berth for many months. Nor was Binny Wallace 
subjected to further molestation. Miss Abigail’s 
sanitary stores, including a bottle of opodeldoc, 
were never called into requisition. The six black 
silk patches, with their elastic strings, are still 
dangling from a beam in the garret of the Nutter 
House, waiting for me to get into fresh difficulties. 





CHAPTER XI] 
ALL ABOUT GYPSY 


TuIs record of my life at Rivermouth would be 
strangely incomplete did I not devote an entire 
chapter to Gypsy. I had other pets, of course; 
for what healthy boy could long exist without 
numerous friends in the animal kingdom? I had 
two white mice that were forever gnawing their 
way out of a pasteboard chateau, and crawling 
over my face when I lay asleep. I used to keep 
the pink-eyed little beggars in my bedroom, 
greatly to the annoyance of Miss Abigail, who 
was constantly fancying that one of the mice had 
secreted itself somewhere about her person. 

I also owned a dog, a terrier, who managed in 
some inscrutable way to pick a quarrel with the 
moon, and on bright nights kept up such a ki-yi- 


122. THE STORY OF A BAD BGs 


ing in our back garden, that we were finally forced 
to dispose of him at private sale. He was pur- 
chased by Mr. Oxford, the butcher. I protested 
against the arrangement, and ever afterwards, 
when we had sausages from Mr. Oxford’s shop, I 
made believe I detected in them certain evidences 
that Cato had been foully dealt with. 

Of birds I had no end — robins, purple-martins, 
wrens, bulfinches, bobolinks, ringdoves, and pi- 
geons. At one time I took solid comfort in the 
iniquitous society of a dissipated old parrot, 
who talked so terribly, that the Reverend Wibird 
Hawkins, happening to get a sample of Poll’s 
vituperative powers, pronounced him “a _ be- 
nighted heathen,” and advised the Captain to get 
rid of him. A brace of turtles supplanted the par- 
rot in my affections; the turtles gave way to rab- 
bits; and the rabbits in turn yielded to the supe- 
rior charms of a small monkey, which the Captain 
bought of a sailor lately from the coast of Africa. 

But Gypsy was the prime favorite, in spite of 
many rivals. I never grew weary of her. She was 
the most knowing little thing in the world. Her 
proper sphere in life — and the one to which she 
ultimately attained — was the saw-dust arena of 
a travelling circus. There was nothing short of 
the three R’s, reading, ’riting, and ’rithmetic, that 


ALL ABOUT GYPSY 123 


Gypsy couldn’t be taught. The gift of speech 
was not hers, but the faculty of thought was. 

My little friend, to be sure, was not exempt 
from certain graceful weaknesses, inseparable, 
perhaps, from the female character. She was 
very pretty, and she knew it. She was also pas- 
sionately fond of dress — by which I mean her 
best harness. When she had this on, her curvet- 
ings and prancings were laughable, though in or- 
dinary tackle she went along demurely enough. 
There was something in the enamelled leather 
and the silver-washed mountings that chimed 
with her artistic sense. To have her mane braided, 
and a rose or a pansy stuck into her forelock, was 
to make her too conceited for anything. 

She had another trait not rare among her sex. 
She liked the attentions of young gentlemen, while 
the society of girls bored her. She would drag them, 
sulkily, in the cart; but as for permitting one of 
them in the saddle, the idea was preposterous. 
Once when Pepper Whitcomb’s sister, in spite of 
our remonstrances, ventured to mount her, Gypsy 
gave a little indignant neigh, and tossed the gentle 
Emma heels over head in no time. But with any of 
the boys the mare was as docile as a lamb. 

Her treatment of the several members of the 
family was comical. For the Captain she enter- 


124 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


tained a wholesome respect, and was always on 
her good behavior when he was around. As to 
Miss Abigail, Gypsy simply laughed at her — 
literally laughed, contracting her upper lip and 
displaying all her snow-white teeth, as if some- 
thing about Miss Abigail struck her, Gypsy, as 
being extremely ridiculous. 

Kitty Collins, for some reason or another, was 
afraid of the pony, or pretended to be. The saga- 
cious little animal knew it, of course, and fre- 
quently, when Kitty was hanging out clothes near 
the stable, the mare being loose in the yard, would 
make short plunges at her. Once Gypsy seized the 
basket of clothes-pins with her teeth, and rising on 
her hind legs, pawing the air with her fore feet, 
followed Kitty clear up to the scullery steps. 

That part of the yard was shut off from the 
rest by a gate; but no gate was proof against Gyp- 
sy’s ingenuity. She could let down bars, lift up 
latches, draw bolts, and turn all sorts of buttons. 
This accomplishment rendered it hazardous for 
Miss Abigail or Kitty to leave any eatables on the 
kitchen table near the window. On one occasion 
Gypsy put in her head and lapped up six custard 
pies that had been placed by the casement to cool. 

An account of my young lady’s various pranks 
would fill a thick volume. A favorite trick of hers, 


ALL ABOUT’ GYPSY 125 


on being requested to ‘‘walk like Miss Abigail,’’ 
was to assume a little skittish gait so true to na- 
ture that Miss Abigail herself was obliged to ad- 
mit the cleverness of the imitation. 

The idea of putting Gypsy through a system- 
atic course of instruction was suggested to me by 
a visit to the circus which gave an annual per- 
formance in Rivermouth. This show embraced 
among its attractions a number of trained Shet- 
land ponies, and J determined that Gypsy should 
likewise have the benefit of a liberal education. I 
succeeded in teaching her to waltz, to fire a pis- 
tol by tugging at a string tied to the trigger, to 
_lie down dead, to wink one eye, and to execute 
many other feats of a difficult nature. She took to 
her studies admirably, and enjoyed the whole 
thing as much as any one. 

The monkey was a perpetual marvel to Gypsy. 
They became bosom-friends in an incredibly 
brief period, and were never easy out of each 
other’s sight. Prince Zany — that’s what Pepper 
Whitcomb and I christened him one day, much 
to the disgust of the monkey, who bit a piece out 
of Pepper’s nose — resided in the stable, and 
went to roost every night on the pony’s back, 
where I usually found him in the morning. When- 
ever I rode out, I was obliged to secure His High- 


126 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ness the Prince with a stout cord to the fence, he 
chattering all the time like a madman. 

One afternoon as I was cantering through the 
crowded part of the town, I noticed that the 
people in the street stopped, stared at me, and 
fell to laughing. I turned round in the saddle, 
and there was Zany, with a great burdock leaf in 
his paw, perched up behind me on the crupper, 
as solemn as a judge. 

After a few months, poor Zany sickened mys- 
teriously, and died. The dark thought occurred 
to me then, and comes back to me now with re- 
doubled force, that Miss Abigail must have given 
him some hot-drops. Zany left a large circle 
of sorrowing friends, if not relatives. Gypsy, I 
think, never entirely recovered from the shock 
occasioned by his early demise. She became 
fonder of me, though; and one of her cunningest 
demonstrations was to escape from the stable- 
yard, and trot up to the door of the Temple 
Grammar School, where I would discover her at 
recess patiently waiting for me, with her fore feet 
on the second step, and wisps of straw standing out 
all over her, like quills upon the fretful porcupine. 

I should fail if I tried to tell you how dear the 
pony was to me. Even hard, unloving men be- 
come attached to the horses they take care of; so 


ABET A BOUL’ Gy Poy 127 


I, who was neither unloving nor hard, grew to 
love every glossy hair of the pretty little creature 
that depended on me for her soft straw bed and 
her daily modicum of oats. In my prayer at night I 
never forgot to mention Gypsy with the rest of the 
family — generally setting forth her claims first. 

Whatever relates to Gypsy belongs properly 
to this narrative; therefore I offer no apology for 
rescuing from oblivion, and boldly printing here 
a short composition which I wrote in the early 
part of my first quarter at the Temple Grammar 
School. It is my maiden effort in a difficult art, 
and is, perhaps, lacking in those graces of thought 
and style which are reached only after the sever- 
est practice. 

Every Wednesday morning, on entering school, 
each pupil was expected to lay his exercise on 
Mr. Grimshaw’s desk; the subject was usually 
selected by Mr. Grimshaw himself, the Monday 
previous. With a humor characteristic of him, 
our teacher had instituted two prizes, one for the 
best and the other for the worst composition of 
the month. The first prize consisted of a pen- 
knife, or a pencil-case, or some such article dear 
to the heart of youth; the second prize entitled 
the winner to wear for an hour or two a sort of 
conical paper cap, on the front of which was writ- 


128 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ten, in tall letters, this modest admission: I AM A 
DuncE! The competitor who took prize No. 2 
wasn’t generally an object of envy. 

My pulse beat high with pride and expecta- 
tion that Wednesday morning, as I laid my essay, 
neatly folded, on the master’s table. I firmly 
decline to say which prize I won; but here’s the 


composition to speak for itself: 





Par 





mnthed- ame ints De sate. Ph 





ALL ABOUT GYPSY 129 


It is no small-author vanity that induces me 
to publish this’stray leaf of natural history. I lay 
it before our young folks, not for their admira- 
tion, but for their criticism. Let each reader take 
his lead-pencil and remorselessly correct the or- 
thography, the capitalization, and the punctu- 
ation of the essay. I shall not feel hurt at seeing 
my treatise cut all to pieces; though I think highly 
of the production, not on account of its literary 
excellence, which I candidly admit is not over- 
powering, but because it was written years and 
years ago about Gypsy, by a little fellow who, 
when I strive to recall him, appears to me like a 
reduced ghost of my present self. 

I am confident that any reader who has ever 
had pets, birds or animals, will forgive me for this 
brief digression. 





CHAPTER XII 
WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH 


‘‘T GUESS we’re going to have a regular old-fash- 
ioned snowstorm,” said Captain Nutter, one 
bleak December morning, casting a peculiarly 
nautical glance skyward. 

The Captain was always hazarding prophecies 
about the weather, which somehow never turned 
out according to his prediction. The vanes on 
the church-steeples seemed to take fiendish pleas- 
ure in humiliating the dear old gentleman. If 
he said it was going to be a clear day, a dense 
sea-fog was pretty certain to set in before noon. 
Once he caused a protracted drought by assuring 
us every morning, for six consecutive weeks, that 
it would rain in a few hours. But, sure enough, 
that afternoon it began snowing. 

Now I had not seen a snowstorm since I was 
eighteen months old, and of course remembered 
nothing about it. A boy familiar from his in- 


WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH - 131 


fancy with the rigors of our New England winters 
can form no idea of the impression made on me 
by this natural phenomenon. My delight and 
surprise were as boundless as if the heavy gray 
sky had let down a shower of pond-lilies and 
white roses, instead of snowflakes. It happened 
to be a half-holiday, so I had nothing to do but 
watch the feathery crystals whirling hither and 
thither through the air. I stood by the sitting- 
room window gazing at the wonder until twilight 
shut out the novel scene. 

We had had several slight flurries of hail and 
snow before, but this was a regular nor’easter. 

Several inches of snow had already fallen. The 
rose-bushes at the door drooped with the weight 
of their magical blossoms, and the two posts 
that held the garden gate were transformed into 
stately Turks, with white turbans, guarding the 
entrance to the Nutter House. 

The storm increased at sundown, and contin- 
ued with unabated violence through the night. 
The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, the 
sun was shining brightly, the cloudless heavens 
wore the tender azure of June, and the whole 
earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as it were, in a 
thick mantle of milk-white down. 

It was a very deep snow. The Oldest Inhabit- 


132 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ant (what would become of a New England town 
or village without its oldest inhabitant?) over- 
hauled his almanacs, and pronounced it the deep- 
est snow we had had for twenty years. It couldn’t 
have been much deeper without smothering us 
all. Our street was a sight to be seen, or, rather, 
it was a sight not to be seen; for very little street 
was visible. One huge drift completely banked 
up our front door and half covered my bedroom 
window. 

There was no school that day, for all the thor- 
oughfares were impassable. By twelve o'clock, 
however, the great snow-ploughs, each drawn by 
four yokes of oxen, broke a wagon-path through 
the principal streets; but the foot-passengers had 
a hard time of it floundering in the arctic drifts. 

The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet wide 
and six feet high, from our front door to the side- 
walk opposite. It was a beautiful cavern, with 
its walls and roof inlaid with mother-of-pearl 
and diamonds. I am sure the ice palace of the 
Russian Empress, in Cowper’s poem, was not a 
more superb piece of architecture. 

The thermometer began falling shortly before 
sunset, and we had the bitterest cold night I ever 
experienced. This brought out the Oldest In- 
habitant again the next day — and what a gay 


WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH 133 


old boy he was for deciding everything! Our tun- 
nel was turned into solid ice. A crust thick 
enough to bear men and horses had formed over 
the snow everywhere, and the air was alive with 
merry sleigh-bells. Icy stalactites, a yard long, 
hung from the eaves of the house, and the Turkish 
sentinels at the gate looked as if they had given 
\ up all hopes of ever being relieved from duty. 
So the winter set in cold and glittering. Every- 
thing out of doors was sheathed in silver mail. To 
quote from Charley Marden, it was “cold enough 
to freeze the tail off a brass monkey’’ — an ob- 
servation which seemed to me extremely happy, 
though I knew little or nothing concerning the 
endurance of brass monkeys, having never seen 
one. 

I had looked forward to the advent of the sea- 
son with grave apprehensions, nerving myself to 
meet dreary nights and monotonous days; but 
summer itself was not more jolly than winter at 
Rivermouth. Snow-balling at school, skating on 
the Mill Pond, coasting by moonlight, long rides 
behind Gypsy in a brand-new little sleigh built 
expressly for her, were sports no less exhilarating 
than those which belonged to the sunny months. 
And then Thanksgiving! The nose of Memory — 
why shouldn’t Memory have a nose? — dilates 


134 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


with pleasure over the rich perfume of Miss Abi- 
gail’s forty mince-pies, each one more delightful 
than the other, like the Sultan’s forty wives. 
Christmas was another red-letter day, though it 
was not so generally observed in New England 
as it is now. 

The great wood-fire in the tiled chimney-place 
made our sitting-room very cheerful of winter 
nights. When the north-wind howled about the 
eaves, and the sharp fingers of the sleet tapped 
against the window-panes, it was nice to be so 
warmly sheltered from the storm. A dish of ap- 
ples and a pitcher of chilly cider were always 
served during the evening. The Captain had a 
funny way of leaning back in the chair, and eating 
his apple with his eyes closed. Sometimes I played 
dominoes with him, and sometimes Miss Abigail 
read aloud to us, pronouncing “‘to”’ toe, and sound- 
ing all the eds. 

In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abigail’s 
managing propensities. She had effected many 
changes in the Nutter House before I came there 
to live; but there was one thing against which 
she had long contended without being able to 
overcome. This was the Captain’s pipe. On first 
taking command of the household, she prohib- 
ited smoking in the sitting-room, where it had 


WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH 135 


been the old gentleman’s custom to take a whiff 
or two of the fragrant weed after meals. The 
edict went forth — and so did the pipe. An ex- 
cellent move, no doubt; but then the house was 
his, and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco 
burning in the middle of the parlor floor, he had 
a perfect right to do so. However, he humored 
her in this as in other matters, and smoked by 
stealth, like a guilty creature, in the barn, or 
about the gardens. That was practicable in sum- 
mer, but in winter the Captain was hard put to it. 
When he couldn’t stand it longer, he retreated 
to his bedroom and barricaded the door. Such 
was the position of affairs at the time of which I 
write. 

One morning, a few days after the great snow, 
as Miss Abigail was dusting the chronometer in 
the hall; she beheld Captain Nutter slowly de- 
scending the staircase, with a long clay pipe in 
his mouth. Miss Abigail could hardly credit her 
own eyes. 

“Dan’el!’”’ she gasped, retiring heavily on the 
hatrack. 

The tone of reproach with which this word was 
uttered failed to produce the slightest effect on 
the Captain, who merely removed the pipe from 
his lips for an instant, and blew a cloud into the 


136 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


chilly air. The thermometer stood at two degrees 
below zero in our hall. 

‘“‘Dan’el!”’ cried Miss Abigail, hysterically — 
‘“‘Dan’el, don’t come near me!’’ Whereupon she 
fainted away; for the smell of tobacco-smoke 
always made her deadly sick. 

Kitty Collins rushed from the kitchen with a 
basin of water, and set to work bathing Miss Abi- 
gail’s temples and chafing her hands. I thought 
my grandfather rather cruel, as he stood there 
with a half-smile on his countenance, compla- 
cently watching Miss Abigail’s sufferings. When 
she was ‘‘brought to,’”’ the Captain sat down be- 
side her, and, with a lovely twinkle in his eye, 
said softly: 

‘Abigail, my dear, there wasn’t any tobacco in 
that pipe! It was a new pipe. I fetched it down 
for Tom to blow soap-bubbles with.” 

At these words Kitty Collins hurried away, her 
features working strangely. Several minutes later 
I came upon her in the scullery with the greater 
portion of a crash towel stuffed into her mouth. 
‘‘Miss Abygil smelt the terbacca with her oi!” 
cried Kitty, partially removing the cloth, and 
then immediately stopping herself up again. 

The Captain’s joke furnished us — that is, 
Kitty and me — with mirth for many a day; as 


WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH | 137 


to Miss Abigail, I think she never wholly par- 
doned him. After this, Captain Nutter gradually 
gave up smoking, which is an untidy, injurious, 
disgraceful, and highly pleasant habit. 

A boy’s life in a secluded New England town 
in winter does not afford many points for illustra- 
tion. Of course he gets his ears or toes frost- 
bitten; of course he smashes his sled against 
another boy’s; of course he bangs his head on the 
ice; and he’s a lad of no enterprise whatever, if he 
doesn’t manage to skate into an eel-hole, and be 
brought home half drowned. All these things 
happened to me; but, as they lack novelty, I pass 
them over, to tell you about the famous snow fort 
which we built on Slatter’s Hill. 





CHAPTER XIII 
THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 


THE memory of man, even that of the Oldest In- 
habitant, runneth not back to the time when there 
did not exist a feud between the North End and 
the South End boys of Rivermouth. 

The origin of the feud is involved in mystery; 
it is impossible to say which party was the first 
aggressor in the far-off ante-revolutionary ages; 
but the fact remains that the youngsters of those 
antipodal sections entertained a mortal hatred 
for each other, and that this hatred had been 
handed down from generation to generation, like 
Miles Standish’s punch-bowl. 

I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, 
regulated the warmth of the quarrel; but at some 
seasons it raged more violently than at others. 
This winter both parties were unusually lively 
and antagonistic. Great was the wrath of the 
South-Enders, when they discovered that the 


SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 139 


North-Enders had thrown up a fort on the crown 
of Slatter’s Hill. 

Slatter’s Hill, or No Man’s Land, as it was gen- 
erally called, was a rise of ground covering, per- 
haps, an acre and a quarter, situated on an im- 
aginary line, marking the boundary between the 
two districts. An immense stratum of granite, 
which here and there thrust out a wrinkled boul- 
der, prevented the site from being used for build- 
ing purposes. The street ran on either side of the 
hill, from one part of which a quantity of rock 
had been removed to form the underpinning of 
the new jail. This excavation made the approach 
from that point all but impossible, especially 
when the ragged ledges were a-glitter with ice. 
You see what a spot it was for a snow fort. 

One evening twenty or thirty of the North- 
Enders quietly took possession of Slatter’s Hill, 
and threw up a strong line of breastworks, some- 
thing after this shape: 





The rear of the intrenchment, being protected 
by the quarry, was left open. The walls were four 


140 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


feet high, and twenty-two inches thick, strength- 
ened at the angles by stakes driven firmly into the 
ground. 

Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the next 
day, when they spied our snowy citadel, with 
Jack Harris’s red silk pocket-handkerchief float- 
ing defiantly from the flagstaff. 

In less than an hour it was known all over 
town, in military circles at least, that the ‘‘ Pud- 
dle-Dockers’’ and the ‘‘ River-Rats”’ (these were 
the derisive sub-titles bestowed on our South-End 
foes) intended to attack the fort that Saturday 
afternoon. 

At two o'clock all the fighting boys of the Tem- 
ple Grammar School, and as many recruits as we 
could muster, lay behind the walls of Fort Slatter, 
with three hundred compact snow-balls piled up 
in pyramids, awaiting the approach of the enemy. 
The enemy was not slow in making his approach 
— fifty strong, headed by one Mat Ames. Our 
forces were under the command of General J. 
Harris. 

Before the action commenced, a meeting was 
arranged between the rival commanders, who 
drew up and signed certain rules and regulations 
respecting the conduct of the battle. As it was 
impossible for the North-Enders to occupy the 


SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 141 


fort permanently, it was stipulated that the 
South-Enders should assault it only on Wednes- 
day and Saturday afternoons between the hours 
of two and six. For them to take possession of the 
place at any other time was not to constitute a 
capture, but on the contrary was to be considered 
a dishonorable and cowardly act. 

The North-Enders, on the other hand, agreed 
to give up the fort whenever ten of the storming 
party succeeded in obtaining at one time a footing 
on the parapet, and were able to hold the same 
for the space of two minutes. 

Both sides were to abstain from putting pebbles 
into their snow-balls, nor was it permissible to 
use frozen ammunition. A snow-ball soaked in 
water and left out to cool was a projectile which 
in previous years had been resorted to with dis- 
astrous results. 

These preliminaries settled, the commanders 
retired to their respective corps. The interview 
had taken place on the hillside between the op- 
posing lines. 

General Harris divided his men into two bodies; 
the first comprised the most skilful marksmen, or 
gunners; the second, the reserve force, was com- 
posed of the strongest boys, whose duty it was to 
repel the scaling parties, and to make occasiona] 


142 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


sallies for the purpose of capturing prisoners, who 
were bound by the articles of treaty to faithfully 
serve under our flag until they were exchanged at 
the close of the day. 

The repellers were called light infantry; but 
when they carried on operations beyond the fort 
they became cavalry. It was also their duty, 
when not otherwise engaged, to manufacture 
snow-balls. The General’s staff consisted of five 
Templars (I among the number, with the rank 
of Major), who carried the General’s orders and 
looked after the wounded. 

General Mat Ames, a veteran commander, was 
no less wide-awake in the disposition of his army. 
Five companies, each numbering but six men, in 
order not to present too big a target to our sharp- 
shooters, were to charge the fort from different 
points, their advance being covered by a heavy 
fire from the gunners posted in the rear. Each 
scaler was provided with only two rounds of am- 
munition, which were not to be used until he had 
mounted the breastwork and could deliver his 
shots on our heads. 

The following cut represents the interior of the 
fort just previous to the assault. Nothing on 
earth could represent the state of things after the 
first volley. 


SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 143 





g g 
tb oe oS. r.* an e % 
: F ; ; ; ee) ‘ on, re 
®e 
ASS 3% 






E 





c 
t 
a 

a. Flagstaff. c. Ammunition. ff. Gunners in position. 


b. General Harris and his Staff. d. Hospital. gg. The quarry. 
ee. Reserve corps. 


The enemy was posted thus: 


“ @ a” 
ey (om - 
Re } 
3 =u kK im eg 


aa. The five attacking columns. 065. Artillery. c. General Ames’s headquarters. 


The thrilling moment had now arrived. If I 
had been going into a real engagement I could not 
have been more deeply impressed by the impor- 
tance of the occasion. 

The fort opened fire first — a single ball from 
the dexterous hand of General Harris taking Gen- 
eral Ames in the very pit of his stomach. A cheer 
went up from Fort Slatter. In an instant the air 
was thick with flying missiles, in the midst of 
which we dimly descried the storming parties 
sweeping up the hill, shoulder to shoulder. The 
shouts of the leaders, and the snow-balls bursting 
like shells about our ears, made it very lively. 


144 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Not more than a dozen of the enemy succeeded 
in reaching the crest of the hill; five of these clam- 
bered upon the icy walls, where they were in- 
stantly grabbed by the legs and jerked into the 
fort. The rest retired confused and blinded by 
our well-directed fire. 

When General Harris (with his right eye bunged 
up) said, “Soldiers, I am proud of you!’”’ my 
heart swelled in my bosom. 

The victory, however, had not been without 
its price. Six North-Enders, having rushed out to 
harass the discomfited enemy, were gallantly cut 
off by General Ames and captured. Among these 
were Lieutenant P. Whitcomb (who had no busi- 
ness to join in the charge, being weak in the knees), 
and Captain Fred Langdon, of General Harris’s 
staff. Whitcomb was one of the most notable 
shots on our side, though he was not much to 
boast of in a rough-and-tumble fight, owing to the 
weakness before mentioned. General Ames put 
him among the gunners, and we were quickly 
made aware of the loss we had sustained, by re- 
ceiving a frequent artful ball which seemed to light 
with unerring instinct on any nose that was the 
least bit exposed. I have known one of Pepper’s 
snow-balls, fired point-blank, to turn a corner and 
hit a boy who considered himself absolutely safe. 





THE THRILLING MOMENT HAD NOW ARRIVED 


avi 





SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 145 


But we had no time for vain regrets. The battle 
raged. Already there were two bad cases of black 
eye, and one of nose-bleed, in the hospital. 

It was glorious excitement, those pell-mell on- 
slaughts and hand-to-hand struggles. Twice we 
were within an ace of being driven from our 
stronghold, when General Harris and his staff 
leaped recklessly upon the ramparts and hurled 
the besiegers heels over head down hill. 

At sunset, the garrison of Fort Slatter was still 
unconquered, and the South-Enders, in a solid 
phalanx, marched off whistling “‘ Yankee Doodle,” 
while we cheered and jeered them until they were 
out of hearing. 

General Ames remained behind to effect an ex- 
change of prisoners. We held thirteen of his men, 
and he eleven of ours. General Ames proposed to 
call it an even thing, since many of his eleven pris- 
oners were officers, while nearly all our thirteen 
captives were privates. A dispute arising on this 
point, the two noble generals came to fisticuffs, 
and in the fracas our brave commander got his 
remaining well eye badly damaged. This didn’t 
prevent him from writing a general order the next 
day, on a slate, in which he complimented the 
troops on their heroic behavior. 

On the following Wednesday the siege was re- 


146 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


newed. I forget whether it was on that afternoon 
or the next that we lost Fort Slatter; but lose it 
we did, with much valuable ammunition and sev- 
eral men. After a series of desperate assaults, we 
forced General Ames to capitulate; and he, in 
turn, made the place too hot to hold us. So from 
day to day the tide of battle surged to and fro, 
sometimes favoring our arms, and sometimes 
those of the enemy. 

General Ames handled his men with great skill; 
his deadliest foe could not deny that. Once he 
outgeneralled our commander in the following 
manner: He massed his gunners on our left and 
opened a brisk fire, under cover of which a single 
company (six men) advanced on that angle of the 
fort. Our reserves on the right rushed over to de- 
fend the threatened point. Meanwhile, four com- 
panies of the enemy’s scalers made a détour 
round the foot of the hill, and dashed into Fort 
Slatter without opposition. At the same mo- 
ment General Ames’s gunners closed in on our 
left, and there we were between two fires. Of 
course we had to vacate the fort. A cloud rested 
on General Harris’s military reputation until his 
superior tactics enabled him to dispossess the 
enemy. 

As the winter wore on, the war-spirit waxed 


SNOW FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 147 


fiercer and fiercer. At length the provision against 
using heavy substances in the snow-balls was 
disregarded. A ball stuck full of sand-bird shot 
came tearing into Fort Slatter. In retaliation, 
General Harris ordered a broadside of shells; i.e., 
snow-balls containing marbles. After this, both 
sides never failed to freeze their ammunition. 

It was no longer child’s play to march up to the" 
walls of Fort Slatter, nor was the position of the 
besieged less perilous. At every assault three or 
four boys on each side were disabled. It was not 
an infrequent occurrence for the combatants to 
hold up a flag of truce while they removed some 
insensible comrade. 

Matters grew worse and worse. Seven North- 
Enders had been seriously wounded, and a dozen 
South-Enders were reported on the sick list. The 
selectmen of the town awoke to the fact of what 
was going on, and detailed a posse of police to pre- 
vent further disturbance. The boys at the foot 
of the hill, South-Enders as it happened, finding 
themselves assailed in the rear and on the flank, 
turned round and attempted to beat off the watch- 
men. In this they were sustained by numerous 
volunteers from the fort, who looked upon the 
interference as tyrannical. 

The watch were determined fellows, and charged 


148 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


the boys valiantly, driving them all into the fort, 
where we made common cause, fighting side by 
side like the best of friends. In vain the four guard- 
ians of the peace rushed up the hill, flourishing 
their clubs and calling upon us to surrender. They 
could not get within ten yards of the fort, our fire 
was so destructive. In one of the onsets a man 
named Mugridge, more valorous than his peers, 
threw himself upon the parapet, when he was 
seized by twenty pairs of hands, and dragged in- 
side the breastwork, where fifteen boys sat down 
on him to keep him quiet. 

Perceiving that it was impossible with their 
small number to dislodge us, the watch sent for 
reinforcements. Their call was responded to, not 
only by the whole constabulary force (eight men), 
but by a numerous body of citizens, who had be- 
come alarmed at the prospect of a riot. This for- 
midable array brought us to our senses: we began 
to think that maybe discretion was the better 
part of valor. General Harris and General Ames, 
with their respective staffs, held a council of war 
in the hospital, and a backward movement was 
decided on. So, after one grand farewell volley. 
we fled, sliding, jumping, rolling, tumbling down 
the quarry at the rear of the fort, and escaped 
without losing a man. | 


SNOW-FORT ON SLATTER’S HILL 149 


But we lost Fort Slatter forever. Those battle- 
scarred ramparts were razed to the ground, and 
humiliating ashes sprinkled over the historic spot, 
near which a solitary lynx-eyed policeman was 
seen prowling from time to time during the rest of 
the winter. 

The event passed into a legend, and afterwards, 
when later instances of pluck and endurance were 
spoken of, the boys would say, “By golly! you 
ought to have been at the fights on Slatter’s Hill!”’ 





CHAPTER XIV 
THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 


IT was spring again. The snow had faded away 
like a dream, and we were awakened, so to speak, 
by the sudden chirping of robins in our back gar- 
den. Marvellous transformation of snow-drifts 
into lilacs, wondrous miracle of the unfolding leaf! 
We read in the Holy Book how our Saviour, at the 
marriage-feast, changed the water into wine; we 
pause and wonder; but every hour a greater mir- 
acle is wrought at our very feet, if we have but 
eyes to see it. 

I had not been a year at Rivermouth. If you 
do not know what sort of boy I was, it is not be- 
cause I haven’t been frank with you. Of my prog- 
ress at school I say little; for this is a story, pure 
and simple, and not a treatise on education. Be- 
hold me, however, well up in most of the classes. 
I have worn my Latin grammar into tatters, and 
am in the first book of Virgil. I interlard my con- 
versation at home with easy quotations from that 
poet, and impress Captain Nutter with a lofty no. 
tion of my learning. I am likewise translating 
“Les Aventures de Télémaque”’ from the French, 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 151 


and shall tackle Blair’s Lectures the next term. I 
am ashamed of my crude composition about The 
Horse, and can do better now. Sometimes my 
head almost aches with the variety of my knowl- 
edge. I consider Mr. Grimshaw the greatest 
scholar that ever lived, and I don’t know which I 
would rather be — a learned man like him, or a 
circus-rider. 

My thoughts revert to this particular spring 
more frequently than to any other period of my 
boyhood, for it was marked by an event that left 
an indelible impression on my memory. As I pen 
these pages, I feel that I am writing of something 
which happened yesterday, so vividly it all comes 
back to me. 

Every Rivermouth boy looks upon the sea as 
being in some way mixed up with his destiny. 
While he is yet a baby lying in his cradle, he hears 
the dull, far-off boom of the breakers; when he is 
older, he wanders by the sandy shore, watching 
the waves that come plunging up the beach like 
white-maned sea-horses, as Thoreau calls them; 
his eye follows the lessening sail as it fades into 
the blue horizon, and he burns for the time when 
he shall stand on the quarter-deck of his own ship, 
and go sailing proudly across that mysterious 
waste of waters, 


152 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Then the town itself is full of hints and flavors 
of the sea. The gables and roofs of the houses 
facing eastward are covered with red rust, like the 
flukes of old anchors; a salty smell pervades the 
air, and dense gray fogs, the very breath of Ocean, 
periodically creep up into the quiet streets and 
envelop everything. The terrific storms that lash 
the coast; the kelp and spars, and sometimes the 
bodies of drowned men, tossed on shore by the 
scornful waves; the shipyards, the wharves, and 
the tawny fleet of fishing-smacks yearly fitted out 
at Rivermouth — these things, and a hundred 
other, feed the imagination and fill the brain of 
every healthy boy with dreams of adventure. He 
learns to swim almost as soon as he can walk; he 
draws in with his mother’s milk the art of han- 
dling an oar: he is born a sailor, whatever he may 
turn out to be afterwards. 

To own the whole or a portion of a row-boat is 
his earliest ambition. No wonder that I, born to 
this life, and coming back to it with freshest sym- 
pathies, should have caught the prevailing infec- | 
tion. No wonder I longed to buy a part of the 
trim little sail-boat Dolphin, which chanced just 
then to be in the market. This was in the latter 
part of May. 

Three shares, at five or six dollars each, I forget 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 153 


which, had already been taken by Phil Adams, 
Fred Langdon, and Binny Wallace. The fourth 
and remaining share hung fire. Unless a purchaser 
could be found for this, the bargain was to fall 
through. q 

I am afraid I required but slight urging to join 
in the investment. I had four dollars and fifty 
cents on hand, and the treasurer of the Centipedes 
advanced me the balance, receiving my silver 
pencil-case as ample security. It was a proud 
moment when I stood on the wharf with my part- 
ners, inspecting the Dolphin, moored at the foot 
of a very slippery flight of steps. She was painted 
white with a green stripe outside, and on the 
stern a yellow dolphin, with its scarlet mouth 
wide open, stared with a surprised expression at 
its own reflection in the water. The boat was a 
great bargain. 

I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the stairs 
leading down from the wharf, when a hand was 
laid gently on my shoulder. I turned, and faced 
Captain Nutter. I never saw such an old sharp- 
eye as he was in those days. 

I knew he wouldn’t be angry with me for buying 
a row-boat; but I also knew that the little bow- 
sprit suggesting a jib, and the tapering mast 
ready for its few square feet of canvas, were trifles 


1s4 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


not likely to meet his approval. As far as rowing 
on the river, among the wharves, was concerned, 
the Captain had long since withdrawn his decided 
objections, having convinced himself, by going 
out with me several times, that I could manage a 
pair of sculls as well as anybody. 

I was right in my surmises. He commanded me, 
in the most emphatic terms, never to go out in the 
Dolphin without leaving the mast in the boat- 
house. This curtailed my anticipated sport, but 
the pleasure of having a pull whenever I wanted it 
remained. I never disobeyed the Captain’s orders 
touching the sail, though I sometimes extended 
my row beyond the points he had indicated. 

The river was dangerous for sail-boats. Squalls, 
without the slightest warning, were of frequent 
occurrence; scarcely a year passed that six or 
seven persons were not drowned under the very 
windows of the town, and these, oddly enough, 
were generally sea-captains, who either did not 
understand the river, or lacked the skill to handle 
a small craft. 

A knowledge of such disasters, one of which I 
witnessed, consoled me somewhat when I saw 
Phil Adams skimming over the water in a spank- 
ing breeze with every stitch of canvas set. There 
were few better yachtsmen than Phil Adams. He 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 155 


usually went sailing alone, for both Fred Langdon 
and Binny Wallace were under the same restric- 
tions I was. 

Not long after the purchase of the boat, we 
planned an excursion to Sandpeep Island, the last 
of the islands in the harbor. We proposed to start 
early in the morning, and return with the tide in 
the moonlight. Our only difficulty was to obtain 
a whole day’s exemption from school, the custom- 
ary half-holiday not being long enough for our 
picnic. Somehow, we couldn’t work it; but for- 
tune arranged it for us. I may say here, that, 
whatever else I did, I never played truant 
(“‘hookey”’ we called it) in my life. 

One afternoon the four owners of the Dolphin 
exchanged significant glances when Mr. Grim- 
shaw announced from the desk that there would 
be no school the following day, he having just re- 
ceived intelligence of the death of his uncle in Bos- 
ton. I was sincerely attached to Mr. Grimshaw, 
but I am afraid that the death of his uncle did not 
affect me as it ought to have done. 

We were up before sunrise the next morning, in 
order to take advantage of the flood tide, which 
waits for no man. Our preparations for the cruise . 
were made the previous evening. In the way of 
eatables and drinkables, we had stored in the 


156 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


stern of the Dolphin a generous bag of hard-tack 
(for the chowder), a piece of pork to fry the cun- 
ners in, three gigantic apple-pies (bought at Pet- 
tingil’s), half a dozen lemons, and a keg of spring- 
water — the last-named article we slung over the 
side, to keep it cool, as soon as we got under way. 
The crockery and the bricks for our camp-stove 
we placed in the bows with the groceries, which 
included sugar, pepper, salt, and a bottle of 
pickles. Phil Adams contributed to the outfit 
a small tent of unbleached cotton cloth, under 
which we intended to take our nooning. 

We unshipped the mast, threw in an extra oar, 
and were ready to embark. I do not believe that 
Christopher Columbus, when he started on his 
rather successful voyage of discovery, felt half the 
responsibility and importance that weighed upon 
me as I sat on the middle seat of the Dolphin, 
with my oar resting in the row-lock. I wonder if 
Christopher Columbus quietly slipped out of the 
house without letting his estimable family know 
what he was up to? : 

Charley Marden, whose father had promised to 
cane him if he ever stepped foot on sail or row- 
boat, came down to the wharf in a sour-grape 
humor, to see us off. Nothing would tempt him to 
go out on the river in such a crazy clam-shell of a 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 157 


boat. He pretended that he did not expect to 
behold us alive again, and tried to throw a wet 
blanket over the expedition. 

‘‘Guess you'll have a squally time of it,’’ said 
Charley, casting off the painter. ‘‘I’ll drop in at 
old Newbury’s’”’ (Newbury was the parish under- 
taker) ‘‘and leave word, as I go along!”’ 

‘“‘Bosh!’”’ muttered Phil Adams, sticking the 
boat-hook into the string-piece of the wharf, and 
sending the Dolphin half a dozen yards towards 
the current. 

How calm and lovely the river was! Not a rip- 
ple stirred on the glassy surface, broken only by 
the sharp cutwater of our tiny craft. The sun, as 
round and red as an August moon, was by this 
time peering above the water-line. 

The town drifted behind us, and we were en- 
tering among the group of islands. Sometimes we 
could almost touch with our boat-hook the shelv- 
ing banks on either side. As we neared the mouth 
of the harbor, a little breeze now and then wrin- 
kled the blue water, shook the spangles from the 
foliage, and gently lifted the spiral mist-wreaths 
that still clung along shore. The measured dip of 
our oars and the drowsy twitterings of the birds 
seemed to mingle with, rather than break, the 
enchanted silence that reigned about us. 


158 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


The scent of the new clover comes back to me 
now, as I recall that delicious morning when we 
floated away in a fairy boat down a river like a 
dream! 

The sun was well up when the nose of the Dol- 
phin nestled against the snow-white bosom of 
Sandpeep Island. This island, as I have said be- 
fore, was the last of the cluster, one side of it being 
washed by the sea. We landed on the river side, 
the sloping sands and quiet water affording us a 
good place to moor the boat. 

It took us an hour or two to transport our stores 
to the spot selected for the encampment. Having 
pitched our tent, using the five oars to support 
the canvas, we got out our lines, and went down 
the rocks seaward to fish. It was early for cun- 
ners, but we were lucky enough to catch as nice a 
mess as ever you saw. A cod for the chowder was 
not so easily secured. At last Binny Wallace 
hauled in a plump little fellow crusted all over 
with flaky silver. 

To skin the fish, build our fireplace, and cook 
the chowder kept us busy the next two hours. 
The fresh air and the exercise had given us the 
appetites of wolves, and we were about famished 
by the time the savory mixture was ready for our 
clam-shell saucers. 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 159 


I shall not insult the rising generation on the 
seaboard by telling them how delectable is a 
chowder compounded and eaten in this Robinson 
Crusoe fashion. As for the boys who live inland, 
and know naught of such marine feasts, my heart 
is full of pity for them. What wasted lives! Not 
to know the delights of a clam-bake, not to love 
chowder, to be ignorant of lob-scouse! 

How happy we were, we four, sitting cross- 
legged in the crisp salt grass, with the invigorat- 
ing sea-breeze blowing gratefully through our 
hair! What a joyous thing was life, and how far 
off seemed death — death, that lurks in all pleas- 
ant places, and was so near! 

The banquet finished, Phil Adams drew from 
his pocket a handful of sweet-fern cigars; but as 
none of the party could indulge without imminent 
risk of becoming sick, we all, on one pretext or 
another, declined, and Phil smoked by himself. 

The wind had freshened by this, and we found 
it comfortable to put on the jackets which had 
been thrown aside in the heat of the day. We 
strolled along the beach and gathered large quan- 
tities of the fairy-woven Iceland moss, which, at 
certain seasons, is washed to these shores; then 
we played at ducks and drakes, and then, the sun 
being sufficiently low, we went in bathing. 


160 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Before our bath was ended a slight change had 
come over the sky and sea; fleecy-white clouds 
scudded here and there, and a muffled moan from 
the breakers caught our ears from time to time. 
While we were dressing, a few hurried drops of 
rain came lisping down, and we adjourned to the 
tent to await the passing of the squall. 

“We're all right, anyhow,” said Phil Adams. 
“Tt won’t be much of a blow, and we'll be as snug 
as a bug in a rug, here in the tent, particularly if 
we have that lemonade which some of you fellows 
were going to make.” 

By an oversight, the lemons had been left in the 
boat. Binny Wallace volunteered to go for them. 

“Put an extra stone on the painter, Binny,” 
said Adams, calling after him; ‘‘it would be awk- 
ward to have the Dolphin give us the slip and re- 
turn to port minus her passengers.”’ 

“That it would,” answered Binny, scrambling 
down the rocks. 

Sandpeep Island is diamond-shaped — one point 
running out into the sea, and the other look- 
ing towards the town. Our tent was on the river 
side. Though the Dolphin was also on the same 
side, it lay out of sight by the beach at the farther 
extremity of the island. 

Binny Wallace had been absent five or six min- 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 161 


utes, when we heard him calling our several names 
in tones that indicated distress or surprise, we 
could not tell which. Our first thought was, ‘‘ The 
boat has broken adrift!” 

We sprung to our feet and hastened down to the 
beach. On turning the bluff which hid the moor- 
ing-place from our view, we found the conjecture 
correct. Not only was the Dolphin afloat, but 
poor little Binny Wallace was standing in the 
bows with his arms stretched helplessly towards 
us — drifting out to sea! 

“Head the boat in shore!’’ shouted Phil Adams. 

Wallace ran to the tiller; but the slight cockle- 
shell merely swung round and drifted broadside 
on. Oh, if we had but left a single scull in the Dol- 
phin! 

‘“‘Can you swim it?’’ cried Adams, desperately, 
using his hand as a speaking-trumpet, for the dis- 
tance between the boat and the island widened 
momently. 

Binny Wallace looked down at the sea, which 
was covered with white caps, and made a despair- 
ing gesture. He knew, and we knew, that the 
stoutest swimmer could not live forty seconds in 
those angry waters. 

A wild, insane light came into Phil Adams’s 
eyes, as he stood knee-deep in the boiling surf, and 


162 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


for an instant I think he meditated plunging into 
the ocean after the receding boat. 

The sky darkened, and an ugly look stole rap- 
idly over the broken surface of the sea. 

Binny Wallace half rose from his seat in the 
stern, and waved his hand to us in token of fare- 
well. In spite of the distance, increasing every 
instant, we could see his face plainly. The anx- 
ious expression it wore at first had passed. It was 
pale and meek now, and I love to think there was 
a kind of halo about it, like that which painters 
place around the forehead of a saint. So he drifted 
away. 

The sky grew darker and darker. It was only 
by straining our eyes through the unnatural twi- 
light that we could keep the Dolphin in sight. 
The figure of Binny Wallace was no longer visible, 
for the boat itself had dwindled to a mere white 
dot on the black water. Now we lost it, and our 
hearts stopped throbbing; and now the speck ap- 
peared again, for an instant, on the crest of a high 
wave. 

Finally, it went out like a spark, and we saw it 
no more. Then we gazed at each other, and dared 
not speak. 

Absorbed in following the course of the boat, we 
had scarcely noticed the huddled inky clouds that 


O HE DRIFTED AWAY 





a 


= a 


—~ 


= 


= 


i 


Be 


= " 
- 
ow. 
baat 


. 
Ale 





THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 163 


sagged down all around us. From these threaten- 
ing masses, seamed at intervals with pale light- 
ning, there now burst a heavy peal of thunder 
that shook the ground under our feet. A sudden 
squall struck the sea, ploughing deep white fur- 
rows into it, and at the same instant a single 
piercing shriek rose above the tempest — the 
frightened cry of a gull swooping over the island. 
How it startled us! 

It was impossible any longer to keep our footing 
on the beach. The wind and the breakers would 
have swept us into the ocean if we had not clung 
to each other with the desperation of drowning 
men. Taking advantage of a momentary lull, we 
crawled up the sands on our hands and knees, and, 
pausing in the lee of the granite ledge to gain 
breath, returned to the camp, where we found that 
the gale had snapped all the fastenings of the tent 
but one. Held by this, the puffed-out canvas 
swayed in the wind like a balloon. It was a task 
of some difficulty to secure it, which we did by 
beating down the canvas with the oars. 

After several trials, we succeeded in setting up 
the tent on the leeward side of the ledge. Blinded 
by the vivid flashes of lightning, and drenched by 
the rain, which fell in torrents, we crept, half dead 
with fear and anguish, under our flimsy shelter. 


164 THE STORY OF A BAD. BOY 


Neither the anguish nor the fear was on our own 
account, for we were comparatively safe, but for 
poor little Binny Wallace, driven out to sea in the 
merciless gale. We shuddered to think of him in 
that frail shell, drifting on and on to his grave, the 
sky rent with lightning over his head, and the 
green abysses yawning beneath him. We fell to 
crying, the three of us, and cried I know not how 
long. 

Meanwhile the storm raged with augmented 
fury. We were obliged to hold on to the ropes of 
the tent to prevent it blowing away. The spray 
from the river leaped several yards up the rocks 
and clutched at us malignantly. The very island 
trembled with the concussions of the sea beating 
upon it, and at times I fancied that it had broken 
loose from its foundation, and was floating of 
with us. The breakers, streaked with angry phos- 
phorus, were fearful to look at. 

The wind rose higher and higher, cutting long 
slits in the tent, through which the rain poured 
incessantly. To complete the sum of our miseries, 
the night was at hand. It came down suddenly, 
at last, like a curtain, shutting in Sandpeep Island 
from all the world. 

It was a dirty night, as the sailors say. The 
darkness was something that could be felt as well 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 165 


as seen — it pressed down upon one with a cold, 
clammy touch. Gazing into the hollow blackness, 
all sorts of imaginable shapes seemed to start forth 
from vacancy — brilliant colors, stars, prisms, and 
dancing lights. What boy, lying awake at night, 
has not amused or terrified himself by peopling 
the spaces around his bed with these phenomena 
of his own eyes? 

“TI say,’’ whispered Fred Langdon, at length, 
clutching my hand, ‘‘don’t you see things — out 
there — in the dark?”’ 

“Yes, yes — Binny Wallace’s face!”’ 

I added to my own nervousness by making this 
avowal; though for the last ten minutes I had seen 
little besides that star-pale face with its angelic 
hair and brows. First a slim yellow circle, like the 
nimbus round the moon, took shape and grew 
sharp against the darkness; then this faded grad- 
ually, and there was the Face, wearing the same 
sad, sweet look it wore when he waved his hand 
to us across the awful water. This optical illusion 
kept repeating itself. 

‘And I, too,”’ said Adams. ‘‘I see it every now 
and then, outside there. What wouldn’t I give 
if it really was poor little Wallace looking in at us! 
O boys, how shall we dare to go back to the town 
without him? I’ve wished a hundred times, since 


166 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


we’ve been sitting here, that I was in his place, 
alive or dead!”’ 

We dreaded the approach of morning as much 
as we longed for it. The morning would tell us all. 
Was it possible for the Dolphin to outride such a 
storm? There was a light-house on Mackerel 
Reef, which lay directly in the course the boat had 
taken, when it disappeared. If the Dolphin had 
caught on this reef, perhaps Binny Wallace was 
safe. Perhaps his cries had been heard by the 
keeper of the light. The man owned a life-boat, 
and had rescued several people. Who could tell? 

Such were the questions we asked ourselves 
again and again, as we lay in each other’s arms 
waiting for daybreak. What an endless night it 
was! I have known months that did not seem so 
long. 

Our position was irksome rather than perilous; 
for the day was certain to bring us relief from the 
town, where our prolonged absence, together with 
the storm, had no doubt excited the liveliest 
alarm for our safety. But the cold, the darkness, 
and the suspense were hard to bear. 

Our soaked jackets had chilled us to the bone. 
To keep warm, we lay huddled together so closely 
that we could hear our hearts beat above the tu- 
mult of sea and sky. 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 167 


After a while we grew very hungry, not having - 
broken our fast since early in the day. The rain 
had turned the hard-tack into a sort of dough; but 
it was better than nothing. 

We used to laugh at Fred Langdon for always 
carrying in his pocket a small vial of essence of 
peppermint or sassafras, a few drops of which, 
sprinkled on a lump of loaf-sugar, he seemed to 
consider a great luxury. I don’t know what 
what would have become of us at this crisis, if it 
hadn’t been for that omnipresent bottle of hot 
stuff. We poured the stinging liquid over our 
sugar, which had kept dry in a sardine-box, and 
warmed ourselves with frequent doses. 

After four or five hours the rain ceased, the 
wind died away to a moan, and the sea — no 
longer raging like a maniac — sobbed and sobbed 
with a piteous human voice all along the coast. 
And well it might, after that night’s work. Twelve 
sail of the Gloucester fishing fleet had gone down 
with every soul on board, just outside of Whale’s- 
Back Light. Think of the wide grief that follows 
in the wake of one wreck; then think of the de- 
spairing women who wrung their hands and wept, 
the next morning, in the streets of Gloucester, 
Marblehead, and Newcastle! 

Though our strength was nearly spent, we were 


168 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


too cold to sleep. Once I sunk into a troubled 
doze, when I seemed to hear Charley Marden’s 
parting words, only it was the Sea that said them. 
After that I threw off the drowsiness whenever it 
threatened to overcome me. 

Fred Langdon was the earliest to discover a 
filmy, luminous streak in the sky, the first glim- 
mering of sunrise. 

‘“Look, it is nearly daybreak!” 

While we were following the direction of his 
finger, a sound of distant oars fell on our ears. 

We listened breathlessly, and as the dip of the 
blades became more audible, we discerned two 
foggy lights, like will-o’-the-wisps, floating on the 
river. 

Running down to the water’s edge, we hailed 
the boats with all our might. The call was heard, 
for the oars rested a moment in the row-locks, and 
then pulled in towards the island. 

It was two boats from the town, in the fg 
of which we could now make out the figures of 
Captain Nutter and Binny Wallace’s father. We 
shrunk back on seeing him. 

‘Thank God!” cried Mr. Wallace, fervently, 
as he leaped from the wherry without waiting for 
the bow to touch the beach. 

But when he saw only three boys standing on 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 169 


the sands, his eye wandered restlessly about in 
quest of the fourth; then a deadly pallor over- 
spread his features. 

Our story was soon told. A solemn silence fell 
upon the crowd of rough boatmen gathered round, 
interrupted only by a stifled sob from one poor 
old man, who stood apart from the rest. 

The sea was still running too high for any 
small boat to venture out; so it was arranged that 
the wherry should take us back to town, leaving 
the yawl, with a picked crew, to hug the island 
until daybreak, and then set forth in search of the 
Dolphin. 

Though it was barely sunrise when we reached 
town, there were a great many people assembled 
at the landing eager for intelligence from missing 
boats. Two picnic parties had started down river 
the day before, just previous to the gale, and 
nothing had been heard of them. It turned out 
that the pleasure-seekers saw their danger in time, 
and ran ashore on one of the least exposed islands, 
where they passed the night. Shortly after our 
own arrival they appeared off Rivermouth, much 
to the joy of their friends, in two shattered, dis- 
masted boats. 

The excitement over, I was in a forlorn state, 
physically and mentally. Captain Nutter put me 


170 6oTHE STORY OF A BAD EGY 


to bed between hot blankets, and sent Kitty Col- 
lins for the doctor. I was wandering in my mind, 
and fancied myself still on Sandpeep Island: now 
we were building our brick-stove to cook the 
chowder, and, in my delirium, I laughed aloud 
and shouted to my comrades; now the sky dark- 
ened, and the squall struck the island: now I gave 
orders to Wallace how to manage the boat, and 
now I cried because the rain was pouring in on 
me through the holes in the tent. Towards eve- 
ning a high fever set in, and it was many days 
before my grandfather deemed it prudent to tell 
me that the Dolphin had been found, floating 
keel upwards, four miles southeast of Mackerel 
Reef. 

Poor little Binny Wallace! How strange it 
seemed, when I went to school again, to see that 
empty seat in the fifth row! How gloomy the 
playground was, lacking the sunshine of his gen- 
tle, sensitive face! One day a folded sheet slipped 
from my algebra; it was the last note he ever 
wrote me. I couldn’t read it for the tears. 

What a pang shot across my heart the afternoon 
it was whispered through the town that a body 
had been washed ashore at Grave Point — the 
place where we bathed. We bathed there no 
more! How well I remember the funeral, and 


THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN 171 


what a piteous sight it was afterwards to see his 
familiar name on a small headstone in the Old 
South Burying-Ground! 

Poor little Binny Wallace! Always the same to 
me. The rest of us have grown up into hard, 
worldly men, fighting the fight of life; but you 
are forever young, and gentle and pure; a part 
of my own childhood that time cannot wither; 
always a little boy, always poor little Binny 
Wallace! 





CHAPTER XV 
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP 


A YEAR had stolen by since the death of Binny 
Wallace — a year of which I have nothing im- 
portant to record. 

The loss of our little playmate threw a shadow 
over our young lives for many and many a month. 
The Dolphin rose and fell with the tide at the foot 
of the slippery steps, unused, the rest of the sum- 
mer. At the close of November we hauled her 
sadly into the boat-house for the winter; but 
when spring came round we launched the Dolphin 
again, and often went down to the wharf and 
looked at her lying in the tangled eel-grass, with- 
out much inclination to take a row. The associa- 
tions connected with the boat were too painful 
as yet; but time, which wears the sharp edge from 
everything, softened this feeling, and one after- 
noon we brought out the cobwebbed oars. 

The ice once broken, brief trips along the 
wharves — we seldom cared to go out into the 
river now — became one of our chief amusements. 
Meanwhile Gypsy was not forgotten. Every clear 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 173 


morning I was in the saddle before breakfast, and 
there are few roads or lanes within ten miles of 
Rivermouth that have not borne the print of her 
vagrant hoof. 

I studied like a good fellow this quarter, carry- 
ing off a couple of first prizes. The Captain ex- 
pressed his gratification by presenting me with a 
new silver dollar. If a dollar in his eyes was 
smaller than a cart-wheel, it wasn’t so very much 
smaller. I redeemed my pencil-case from the 
treasurer of the Centipedes, and felt that I was 
getting on in the world. 

It was at this time I was greatly cast down by a 
letter from my father saying that he should be 
unable to visit Rivermouth until the following 
year. With that letter came another to Captain 
Nutter, which he did not read aloud to the family, 
as usual. It was on business, he said, folding it up 
in his wallet. He received several of these busi- 
ness letters from time to time, and I noticed that 
they always made him silent and moody. 

The fact is, my father’s banking-house was 
not thriving. The unlooked-for failure of a firm 
largely indebted to him had crippled ‘‘ the house.” 
When the Captain imparted this information to 
me, I didn’t trouble myself over the matter. I 
supposed — if I supposed anything — that all 


174 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


grown-up people had more or less money, when 
they wanted it. Whether they inherited it, or 
whether government supplied them, was not clear 
to me. A loose idea that my father had a private 
gold-mine somewhere or other relieved me of all 
uneasiness. 

I was not far from right. Every man has within 
himself a gold-mine whose riches are limited only 
by his own industry. It is true, it sometimes hap- 
pens that industry does not avail, if a man lacks 
that something which, for want of a better name, 
we call Luck. My father was a person of untiring 
energy and ability; but he had no luck. To usea 
Rivermouth saying, he was always catching scul- 
pins when every one else with the same bait was 
catching mackerel. 

It was more than two years since I had seen 
my parents. I felt that I could not bear a longer 
separation. Every letter from New Orleans — we 
got two or three a month — gave me a fit of home- 
sickness; and when it was definitely settled that my 
father and mother were to remain in the South 
another twelvemonth, I resolved to go to them. - 

Since Binny Wallace’s death, Pepper Whitcomb 
had been my fidus Achates; we occupied desks 
near each other at school, and were always to- 
gether in play hours. We rigged a twine telegraph 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 175 


from his garret window to the scuttle of the Nut- 
ter House, and sent messages to each other in a 
match-box. We shared our pocket-money and 
our secrets — those amazing secrets which boys 
have. We met in lonely places by stealth, and 
parted like conspirators; we couldn’t buy a jack- 
knife or build a kite without throwing an air of 
mystery and guilt over the transaction. 

I naturally hastened to lay my New Orleans 
project before Pepper Whitcomb, having dragged 
him for that purpose to a secluded spot in the dark 
pine woods outside the town. Pepper listened to 
me with a gravity which he will not be able to 
surpass when he becomes Chief Justice, and 
strongly advised me to go. 


’ 


“The summer vacation,” said Pepper, ‘“‘lasts 
six weeks; that will give you a fortnight to spend 
in New Orleans, allowing two weeks each way for 
the journey.” 

I wrung his hand and begged him to accompany 
me, offering to defray all the expenses. I wasn’t 
anything if I wasn’t princely in those days. After 
considerable urging, he consented to go on terms 
so liberal. The whole thing was arranged; there 
was nothing to do now but to advise Captain Nut- 
ter of my plan, which I did the next day. 

The possibility that he might oppose the tour 


176 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


never entered my head. I was therefore totally 
unprepared for the vigorous negative which met 
my proposal. I was deeply mortified, moreover, 
for there was Pepper Whitcomb on the wharf, at 
the foot of the street, waiting for me to come and 
let him know what day we were to start. 

‘‘Go to New Orleans? Go to Jericho!” ex- 
claimed Captain Nutter. ‘“You’d look pretty, 
you two, philandering off, like the babes in the 
wood, twenty-five hundred miles, ‘with all the 
world before you where to choose’!”’ 

And the Captain’s features, which had worn an 
indignant air as he began the sentence, relaxed 
into a broad smile. Whether it was at the felicity 
of his own quotation, or at the mental picture 
he drew of Pepper and myself on our travels 
I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care. I was heart- 
broken. How could I face my chum after all the 
dazzling inducements I had held out to him? 

My grandfather, seeing that I took the matter 
seriously, pointed out the difficulties of such a 
journey and the great expense involved. He en- 
tered into the details of my father’s money trou- 
bles, and succeeded in making it plain to me that 
my wishes, under the circumstances, were some- 
what unreasonable. It was in no cheerful mood 
that I joined Pepper at the end of the wharf. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 177 


I found that young gentleman leaning against 
the bulkhead gazing intently towards the islands 
in the harbor. He had formed a telescope of his 
hands, and was so occupied with his observations 
as to be oblivious of my approach. 

““Hullo!”’ cried Pepper, dropping his hands. 
“Look there! isn’t that a bark coming up the Nar- 
rows?”’ 

*“Where?”’ 

“Just at the left of Fishcrate Island. Don’t you 
see the foremast peeping above the old derrick?”’ 


1 


Sure enough it was a vessel of considerable size, 
slowly beating up to town. In a few moments 
more the other two masts were visible above the 
green hillocks. 

‘‘Fore-topmasts blown away,’ said Pepper. 
‘Putting in for repairs, I guess.”’ 

As the bark lazily crept from behind the last of 
the islands, she let go her anchors and swung 
round with the tide. Then the gleeful chant of the 
sailors at the capstan came to us pleasantly 
across the water. The vessel lay within three 
quarters of a mile of us, and we could plainly see 
the men at the davits lowering the starboard 
long-boat. It no sooner touched the stream than 
a dozen of the crew scrambled like mice over the 
side of the merchantman. 


178 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


In a neglected seaport like Rivermouth the ar- 
"rival of a large ship is an event of moment. The 
prospect of having twenty or thirty jolly tars let 
loose on the peaceful town excites divers emotions 
among the inhabitants. The small shopkeepers 
along the wharves anticipate a thriving trade; the 
proprietors of the two rival boarding-houses — 
the ‘‘Wee Drop” and the “ Mariner’s Home”? — 
hasten down to the landing to secure lodgers; and 
the female population of Anchor Lane turn out to 
a woman, for a ship fresh from sea is always full of 
possible husbands and long-lost prodigal sons. 

But aside from this there is scant welcome given 
to a ship’s crew in Rivermouth. The toil-worn 
mariner is a sad fellow ashore, judging him by a 
severe moral standard. 

Once, I remember, a United States frigate came 
into port for repairs after a storm. She lay in the 
river a fortnight or more, and every day sent usa 
gang of sixty or seventy of our country’s gallant 
defenders, who spread themselves over the town, 
doing all sorts of mad things. They were good- 
natured enough, but full of old Sancho. The 
‘Wee Drop” proved a drop too much for many 
of them. They went singing through the streets 
at midnight, wringing off door-knockers, shinning 
up water-spouts, and frightening the Oldest In- 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE _ 179 


habitant nearly to death by popping their heads 
into his second-story window, and_ shouting 
“‘Fire!’”? One morning a blue-jacket was discov- 
ered in a perilous plight, half-way up the steeple 
of the South Church, clinging to the lightning- 
rod. How he got there nobody could tell, not 
even blue-jacket himself. All he knew was, that 
the leg of his trousers had caught on a nail, and 
there he stuck, unable to move either way. It 
cost the town twenty dollars to get him down 
again. He directed the workmen how te splice 
the ladders brought to his assistance, and called 
his rescuers ‘‘ butter-fingered land-lubbers”’ with 
delicious coolness. 

But those were man-of-war’s men. The sedate- 
looking craft now lying off Fishcrate Island wasn’t 
likely to carry any such cargo. Nevertheless, we 
watched the coming in of the long-boat with con- 
siderable interest. 

As it drew near, the figure of the man pulling 
the bow-oar seemed oddly familiar to me. Where 
could I have seen him before? When and where? 
His back was towards me, but there was some- 
thing about that closely cropped head that I rec- 
ognized instantly. 

‘‘Way enough!”’ cried the steersman, and all 
the oars stood upright in the air. The man in the 


18! THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


bow seized the boat-hook, and, turning round 
quickly, showed me the honest face of Sailor Ben 
of the Typhoon. 

“It’s Sailor Ben!’’ I cried, nearly pushing Pep- 
per Whitcomb overboard in my excitement. 

Sailor Ben, with the wonderful pink lady on his 
arm, and the ships and stars and anchors tattooed 
all over him, was a well-known hero among my 
playmates. And there he was, like something in 
a dream come true! 

I didn’t wait for my old acquaintance to get 
firmly on the wharf, before I grasped his hand in 
both of mine. 

“Sailor Ben, don’t you remember me?”’ 

He evidently did not. He shifted his quid from 
one cheek to the other, and looked at me medi- 
tatively. 

‘Lord love ye, lad, I don’t know you. I was 
never here afore in my life.’’ 

‘“What!’’ I cried, enjoying his perplexity, 
‘“‘have you forgotten the voyage from New Or- 
leans in the Typhoon, two years ago, you lovely 
old picture-book?”’ 

Ah! then he knew me, and in token of the recol- 
lection gave my hand such a squeeze that I am 
sure an unpleasant change came over my coun- 
tenance. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 181 


‘“Bless my eyes, but you have growed so. I 
shouldn’t have knowed you if I had met you in 
Singapore!”’ 

Without stopping to inquire, as I was tempted 
to do, why he was more likely to recognize me in 
Singapore than anywhere else, I invited him to 
come at once up to the Nutter House, where I 
insured him a warm welcome from the Captain. 

“Hold steady, Master Tom,” said Sailor Ben, 
slipping the painter through the ringbolt and ty- 
ing the loveliest knot you ever saw; “‘hold steady 
till I see if the mate can let me off. If you please, 
sir,’ he continued, addressing the steersman, a 
very red-faced, bow-legged person, “‘this here isa 
little shipmate o’ mine as wants to talk over back 
times along of me, if so it’s convenient.”’ 

‘All right, Ben,’’ returned the mate; ‘‘shan’t 
want you for an hour.”’ 

Leaving one man in charge of the boat, the mate 
and the rest of the crew went off together. In the 
meanwhile Pepper Whitcomb had got out his cun- 
ner-line, and was quietly fishing at the end of the 
wharf, as if to give me the idea that he wasn’t so 
very much impressed by my intimacy with so re- 
nowned a character as Sailor Ben. Perhaps Pep- 
per was a little jealous. At any rate, he refused to 
go with us to the house. 


182 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Captain Nutter was at home reading the 


9” 


“Rivermouth Barnacle.’’ He was a reader to do 
an editor’s heart good; he never skipped over an 
advertisement, even if he had read it fifty times 
before. Then the paper went the rounds of the 
neighborhood, among the poor people, like the 
single portable eye which the three blind crones 
passed to each other in the legend of King Acris- 
ius. The Captain, I repeat, was wandering in the 
labyrinths of the ‘“‘ Rivermouth Barnacle” when I 
led Sailor Ben into the sitting-room. 

My grandfather, whose inborn courtesy knew 
no distinctions, received my nautical friend as 
if he had been an admiral instead of a common 
forecastle-hand. Sailor Ben pulled an imaginary 
tuft of hair on his forehead, and bowed clumsily. 
Sailors have a way of using their forelock as a sort 
of handle to bow with. 

The old tar had probably never been in so hand- 
some an apartment in all his days, and nothing 
could induce him to take the inviting mahogany 
chair which the Captain wheeled out from the 
corner. 

The abashed mariner stood up against the wall, 
twirling his tarpaulin in his two hands and looking 
extremely silly. He made a poor show in a gentle- 
man’s drawing-room, but what a fellow he had 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 183 


been in his day, when the gale blew great guns 
and the topsails wanted reefing! I thought of him 
with the Mexican squadron off Vera Cruz, where 


“The rushing battle-bolt sung from the three-decker out of 
the foam,” 


and he didn’t seem awkward or ignoble to me, for 
all his shyness. 

As Sailor Ben declined to sit down, the Captain 
did not resume his seat; so we three stood in a 
constrained manner until my grandfather went 
to the door and called to Kitty to bring in a de- 
canter of Madeira and two glasses. 

‘My grandson, here, has talked so much about 
you,” said the Captain, pleasantly, “‘that you 
seem quite like an old acquaintance to me.” 

‘“Thankee, sir, thankee,’’ returned Sailor Ben, 
looking as guilty as if he had been detected in 
picking a pocket. 

‘‘ And I’m very glad to see you, Mr. — Mr. —”’ 

“Sailor Ben,’”’ suggested that worthy. 

“Mr. Sailor Ben,’’ added the Captain, smiling. 
““Tom, open the door, there’s Kitty with the 
glasses.” 

I opened the door, and Kitty entered the room 
bringing the things on a waiter, which she was 
about to set on the table, when suddenly she ut- 
tered a loud shriek; the decanter and glasses fell 


184 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


with a crash to the floor, and Kitty, as white asa 
sheet, was seen flying through the hall. 

“Tt’s his wraith! It’s his wraith!’’! we heard 
Kitty shrieking, in the kitchen. 

My grandfather and I turned with amazement 
to Sailor Ben. His eyes were standing out of his 
head like a lobster’s. 

“Tt’s my own little Irish lass!”” shouted the 
sailor, and he darted into the hall after her. 

Even then we scarcely caught the meaning of 
his words, but when we saw Sailor Ben and Kitty 
sobbing on each other’s shoulder in the kitchen, 
we understood it ail. 

“IT begs your honor’s parden, sir,’’ said Sailor 
Ben, lifting his tear-stained face above Kitty’s 
tumbled hair. ‘‘I begs your honor’s parden for 
kicking up a rumpus in the house, but it’s my own 
little Irish lass as I lost so long ago!” 

‘Heaven preserve us!”’ cried the Captain, blow- 
ing his nose violently —a transparent ruse to 
hide his emotion. 

Miss Abigail was in an upper chamber, sweep- 
ing; but on hearing the unusual racket below, 
she scented an accident and came ambling down- 
stairs with a bottle of the infallible hot-drops in 
her hand. Nothing but the firmness of my grand- 

1 Ghost, spirit. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE _ 185 


father prevented her from giving Sailor Ben a 
tablespoonful on the spot. But when she learned 
what had come about — that this was Kitty’s 
husband, that Kitty Collins wasn’t Kitty Collins 
now, but Mrs. Benjamin Watson of Nantucket — 
the good soul sat down on the meal-chest and 
sobbed as if — to quote from Captain Nutter — 
as if a husband of her own had turned up! 

A happier set of people than we were never met 
together in a dingy kitchen or anywhere else. The 
Captain ordered a fresh decanter of Madeira, and 
made all hands, excepting myself, drink a cup to 
the return of ‘‘the prodigal sea-son,’’ as he per- 
sisted in calling Sailor Ben. 

After the first flush of joy and surprise was over, 
Kitty grew silent and constrained. Now and then 
she fixed her eyes thoughtfully on her husband. 
Why had he deserted her all these long years? 
What right had he to look for a welcome from one 
he had treated so cruelly? She had been true to 
him, but had he been true to her? Sailor Ben 
must have guessed what was passing in her mind, 
for presently he took her hand and said: 

“Well, lass, it’s a long yarn, but you shall have 
it all in good time. It was my hard luck as made 
us part company, an’ no will of mine, for I loved 
you dear.” 


186° THE’ STORY OF A BADIE@r 


Kitty brightened up immediately, needing no 
other assurance of Sailor Ben’s faithfulness. 

When his hour had expired, we walked with 
him down to the wharf, where the Captain held a 
consultation with the mate, which resulted in an 
extension of Mr. Watson’s leave of absence, and 
afterwards in his discharge from his ship. We 
then went to the ‘‘ Mariner’s Home”’ to engage a 
room for him, as he wouldn’t hear of accepting 
the hospitalities of the Nutter House. 

‘“You see, I’m only an uneddicated man,” he 
remarked to my grandfather, by way of explana- 
tion. 





CHAPTER XVI 
IN WHICH SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 


OF course we were all very curious to learn what 
had befallen Sailor Ben that morning long ago, 
when he bade his little bride good-bye and disap- 
peared so mysteriously. 

After tea, that same evening, we assembled 
around the table in the kitchen — the only place 
where Sailor Ben felt at home — to hear what he 
had to say for himself. 

The candles were snuffed, and a pitcher of 
foaming nut-brown ale was set at the elbow of the 
speaker, who was evidently embarrassed by the 
respectability of his audience, consisting of Cap- 
tain Nutter, Miss Abigail, myself, and Kitty, 
whose face shone with happiness like one of the 
polished tin platters on the dresser. 

‘Well, my hearties,”” commenced Sailor Ben — 


188 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


then he stopped short and turned very red, as it 
struck him that maybe this was not quite the 
proper way to address a dignitary like the Captain 
and a severe elderly lady like Miss Abigail Nutter, 
who sat bolt upright staring at him as she would 
have stared at the Tycoon of Japan himself. 

“‘T ain’t much of a hand at spinnin’ a yarn,” 
remarked Sailor Ben, apologetically, ‘‘’specially 
when the yarn is all about a man as has made a 
fool of hisself, an’ ‘specially when that man’s 
name is Benjamin Watson.”’ 

“‘Bravo!’’ cried Captain Nutter, rapping on 
the table encouragingly. 

‘“Thankee, sir, thankee. I go back to the time 
when Kitty an’ me was livin’ in lodgin’s by the 
dock in New York. We was as happy, sir, as two 
porpusses, which they toil not neither do they 
spin. But when I seed the money gittin’ low in 
the locker — Kitty’s starboard stockin’, savin’ 
your presence, marm — I got down-hearted like, 
seein’ as I should be obleeged to ship agin, for it 
didn’t seem as I could do much ashore. An’ then 
the sea was my nat’ral spear of action. I wasn’t 
exactly born on it, look you, but I fell into it the 
fust time I was let out arter my birth. My mother 
slipped her cable for a heavenly port afore I was 
old enough to hail her; so I larnt to look on the 


SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 189 


ocean for a sort of step-mother — an’ a precious 
hard one she has been to me. 

‘The idee of leavin’ Kitty so soon arter our 
marriage went agin my grain considerable. I 
cruised along the docks for somethin’ to do in the 
way of stevedore: an’ though I picked up a stray 
job here and there, I didn’t arn enough to buy 
ship-bisket for a rat, let alone feedin’ two human 
mouths. There wasn’t nothin’ honest I wouldn’t 
have turned a hand to; but the ’longshoremen 
gobbled up all the work, an’ a outsider like me 
didn’t stand a show. 

“Things got from bad to worse; the month’s 
rent took all our cash except a dollar or so, an’ the 
sky looked kind o’ squally fore an’ aft. Well, I set 
out one mornin’ — that identical unlucky mornin’ 
— determined to come back an’ toss some pay 
into Kitty’s lap, if I had to sell my jacket for it. I 
spied a brig unloadin’ coal at pier No. 47 — how 
well I remembers it! I hailed the mate, an’ offered 
myself for a coal-heaver. But I wasn’t wanted, as 
he told me civilly enough, which was better treat- 
ment than usual. As I turned off rather glum, I 
was signalled by one of them sleek, smooth-spoken 
rascals with a white hat an’ a weed on it, as is al- 
ways goin’ about the piers a-seekin’ who they may 
devower, 


1909 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


“We sailors know ’em for rascals from stem to 
starn, but somehow every fresh one fleeces us jest 
as his mate did afore him. We don’t larn nothin’ 
by exper’ence; we’re jest no better than a lot of 
babbys with no brains. 

‘“‘“Good mornin’, my man,’ sez the chap, as iley 
as you please. 

““*Mornin’, sir,’ sez I. 

‘Lookin’ for a job?’ sez-he. 

‘‘* Through the big end of a telescope,’ sez [ — 
meanin’ that the chances for a job looked very 
small from my p’int of view. 

“““You’re the man for my money,’ sez the 
sharper, smilin’ as innocent as a cherubim; ‘jest 
step in here, till we talk it over.’ 

‘So I goes with him like a nat’ral-born idiot, 
into a little grocery-shop near by, where we sets 
down at a table with a bottle atween us. Then it 
comes out as there is a New Bedford whaler about 
to start for the fishin’ grounds, an’ jest one able- 
bodied sailor like me is wanted to make up the 
crew. Would I go? Yes, I wouldn’t on no terms. 

“Pl bet you fifty dollars,’ sez he, ‘that you'll 
come back fust mate.’ 

‘““*T’ll bet you a hundred,’ sez I, ‘that I don’t, 
for I’ve signed papers as keeps me ashore, an’ the 
parson has witnessed the deed.’ 


SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN Ig1 


‘So we sat there, he urgin’ me to ship, an’ I 
chaffin’ him cheerful over the bottle. 

‘‘Arter a while I begun to feel a little queer; 
things got foggy in my upper works, an’ I remem- 
bers, faintlike, of signin’ a paper; then I remem- 
bers bein’ in a small boat; an’ then I remembers 
nothin’ until I heard the mate’s whistle pipin’ all 
hands on deck. I tumbled up with the rest, an’ 
there I was—on board of a whaler outward- 
bound for a three years’ cruise, an’ my dear little 
lass ashore a-waitin’ for me.” 

‘‘Miserable wretch!”’ said Miss Abigail, in a 
voice that vibrated among the tin platters on the 
dresser. This was Miss Abigail’s way of testify- 
ing her sympathy. 

‘“Thankee, marm,’’ returned Sailor Ben, doubt- 
fully. 

“No talking to the man at the wheel,”’ cried the 
Captain. Upon which we all laughed. ‘“Spin!”’ 
added my grandfather. 

Sailor Ben resumed: 

‘“‘T leave you to guess the wretchedness as fell 
upon me, for I’ve not got the gift to tell you. 
There I was down on the ship’s books for a three 
years’ viage, an’ no help for it. I feel nigh to six 
hundred years old when I think how long that 
viage was. There isn’t no hour-glass as runs slow 


192 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


enough to keep a tally of the slowness of them 
fust hours. But I done my duty like a man, seein’ 
there wasn’t no way of gettin’ out of it. I told 
my shipmates of the trick as had been played on 
me, an’ they tried to cheer me up a bit; but I was 
sore sorrowful for a long spell. Many a night on 
watch I put my face in my hands and sobbed for 
thinkin’ of the little woman left among the land- 
sharks, an’ no man to have an eye on her, God 
bless her!’’ 

Here Kitty softly drew her chair nearer to 
Sailor Ben, and rested one hand on his arm. 

‘‘Our adventures among the whales, I take it, 
doesn’t consarn the present company here as- 
sembled. So I give that the go by. There’s an end 
to everythin’, even to a whalin’ viage. My heart 
all but choked me the day we put into New Bed- 
ford with our cargo of ile. I got my three years’ 
pay in a lump, an’ made for New York like a flash 
of lightnin’. The people hove to and looked at 
me, as I rushed through the streets like a mad- 
man, until I came to the spot where the lodgin’- 
house stood on West Street. But, Lord love ye, 
there wasn’t no sech lodgin’-house there, but a 
great new brick shop. 

‘‘T made bold to go in an’ ask arter the old 
place, but nobody knowed nothin’ about it, save 


SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 1093 


as it had been torn down two years or more. I was 
adrift now, for I had reckoned all them days and 
nights on gittin’ word of Kitty from Dan Shack- 
ford, the man as kept the lodgin’. 

‘As I stood there with all the wind knocked 
out of my sails, the idee of runnin’ alongside the 
perlice-station popped into my head. The perlice 
was likely to know the latitude of a man like Dan 
Shackford, who wasn’t over an’ above respeckt- 
ible. They did know — he had died in the Tombs 
jail that day twelvemonth. A coincydunce, wasn’t 
it? I was ready to drop when they told me this; 
howsomever, I bore up an’ give the chief a notion 
of the fix I was in. He writ a notice which I put 
into the newspapers every day for three months; 
but nothin’ come of it. I cruised over the city 
week in and week out; I went to every sort of 
place where they hired women hands; I didn’t 
leave a think undone that a uneddicated man 
could do. But nothin’ come of it. I don’t believe 
there was a wretcheder soul in that big city of 
wretchedness than me. Sometimes I wanted to 
lay down in the streets and die. 

“‘Driftin’ disconsolate one day among the ship- 
pin’, who should I overhaul but the identical 
smooth-spoken chap with a white hat an’ a weed 
on it! I didn’t know if there was any sperit left in 


194 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


me, till I clapped eye on his very onpleasant coun- 
tenance. ‘You villain!’ sez I, ‘where’s my little 
Irish lass as you dragged me away from?’ an’ I 
lighted on him, hat and all, like that!” 

Here Sailor Ben brought his fist down on the 
deal table with the force of asledge-hammer. Miss 
Abigail gave a start, and the ale leaped up in the 
pitcher like a miniature fountain. 

‘“‘T begs your parden, ladies and gentlemen all; 
but the thought of that feller with his ring an’ his 
watch-chain an’ his walrus face, is alus too many 
for me. I was for pitchin’ him into the North 
River, when a perliceman prevented me from 
benefitin’ the human family. I had to pay five 
dollars for hittin’ the chap (they said it was salt 
and buttery), an’ that’s what I call a neat, genteel 
luxury. It was worth double the money jest to 
see that white hat, with a weed on it, layin’ on the 
wharf like a busted accordiun. 

‘‘Arter months of useless sarch, I went to sea 
agin. I never got into a foren port but I kept a 
watch out for Kitty. Once I thought I seed her in 
Liverpool, but it was only a gal as looked like her. 
The numbers of women in different parts of the 
world as looked like her was amazin’. So a good 
many years crawled by, an’ I wandered from 
place to place, never givin’ up the sarch. I might 


SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 195 


have been chief mate scores of times, maybe 
master; but I hadn’t no ambition. I seed many 
strange things in them years — outlandish people 
an’ cities, storms, shipwracks, an’ battles. I seed 
many a true mate go down, an’ sometimes I en- 
vied them what went to their rest. But these 
things is neither here nor there. 

‘‘ About a year ago I shipped on board the Bel- 
phoebe yonder, an’ of all the strange winds as ever 
blowed, the strangest an’ the best was the wind as 
blowed me to this here blessed spot. I can’t be too 
thankful. That I’m as thankful as it is possible 
for an uneddicated man to be, He knows as reads 
the heart of all.” 

Here ended Sailor Ben’s yarn, which I have 
written down in his own homely words as nearly 
as I can recall them. After he had finished, the 
Captain shook hands with him and served out the 
ale. 

As Kitty was about to drink, she paused, rested 
the cup on her knee, and asked what day of the 
month it was. 

“The twenty-seventh,” said the Captain, won- 
dering what she was driving at. 

“Then,” cried Kitty, ‘‘it’s ten years this night 
sence —”’ 

“Since what?’’ asked my grandfather. 


196 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


‘““Sence the little lass and I got spliced!”’ roared 
Sailor Ben. ‘‘There’s another coincydunce for 
you!” — 

On hearing this, we all clapped hands, and the 
Captain, with a degree of ceremony that was al- 
most painful, drank a bumper to the health and 
happiness of the bride and bridegroom. 

It was a pleasant sight to see the two old lovers 
sitting side by side, in spite of all, drinking from 
the same little cup — a battered zinc dipper which 
Sailor Ben had unslung from a strap round his 
waist. I think I never saw him without this dip- 
per and a sheath-knife suspended just back of his 
hip, ready for any convivial occasion. 

We had a merry time of it. The Captain was 
in great force this evening, and not only related 
his famous exploit in the War of 1812, but re- 
galed the company with a dashing sea-song from 
Mr. Shakespeare’s play of ‘‘The Tempest.” He 
had a mellow tenor voice (not Shakespeare, 
but the Captain), and rolled out the verse with 
a will: 

“The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, 
The gunner, and his mate, 


Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, 
But none of us car’d for Kate.” 


““A very good song, and wery well sung,’’ says 


SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN 1097 


Sailor Ben; ‘‘but some of us does care for Kate. 
Is this Mr. Shawkspear a sea-farin’ man, sir?” - 

“Not at present,’’ replied the Captain, with a 
monstrous twinkle in his eye. 

The clock was striking ten when the party 
broke up. The Captain walked to the “‘ Mariner’s 
Home’”’ with his guest, in order to question him 
regarding his future movements. 

‘Well, sir,” said he, ‘I ain’t as young as I was, 
an’ I don’t cal’ulate to go to sea no more. I pro- 
poses to drop anchor here, an’ hug the land until 
the old hulk goes to pieces. I’ve got two or three 
thousand dollars in the locker, an’ expects to get 
on uncommon comfortable without askin’ no odds 
from the Assylum for Decayed Mariners.”’ 

My grandfather endorsed the plan warmly, and 
Sailor Ben did drop anchor in Rivermouth, where 
he speedily became one of the institutions of the 
town. 

His first step was to buy a small one-story cot- 
tage located at the head of the wharf, within gun- 
shot of the Nutter House. To the great amuse- 
ment of my grandfather, Sailor Ben painted the 
cottage a light sky-blue, and ran a broad black 
stripe around it just under the eaves. In this 
stripe he painted white port-holes, at regular dis- 
tances, making his residence look as much like a 


198 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


man-of-war as possible. With a short flagstaff 
projecting over the door like a bow-sprit, the ef- 
fect was quite magical. My description of the ex- 
terior of this palatial residence is complete when 
I add that the proprietor nailed a horseshoe 
against the front door to keep off the witches 
—a very necessary precaution in these lati- 
tudes. 

The inside of Sailor Ben’s abode was not less 
striking than the outside. The cottage contained 
two rooms; the one opening on the wharf he called 
his cabin; here he ate and slept. His few tumblers 
and a frugal collection of crockery were set in a 
rack suspended over the table, which had a cleat 
of wood nailed round the edge to prevent the 
dishes from sliding off in case of a heavy sea. 
Hanging against the walls were three or four 
highly colored prints of celebrated frigates, and a 
lithograph picture of a rosy young woman insuf- 
ficiently clad in the American flag. This was 
labelled ‘‘ Kitty,’ though I’m sure it looked no 
more like her than I did. A walrus-tooth with an 
Esquimaux engraved on it, a shark’s jaw, and the 
blade of a sword-fish were among the enviable 
decorations of this apartment. In one corner 
stood his bunk, or bed, and in the other his well- 
worn sea-chest, a perfect Pandora’s box of mys- 


SAILOR BEN SPINS A YARN _ 199 


teries. You would have thought yourself in the 
cabin of a real ship. 

The little room aft, separated from the cabin by 
a sliding door, was the caboose. It held a cooking- 
stove, pots, pans, and groceries; also a lot of fish- 
ing-lines and coils of tarred twine, which made the 
place smell like a forecastle, and a delightful 
smell it is — to those who fancy it. 

Kitty didn’t leave our service, but played 
housekeeper for both establishments, returning 
at night to Sailor Ben’s. He shortly added a 
wherry to his worldly goods, and in the fishing 
season made a very handsome income. During 
the winter he employed himself manufacturing _ 
crab-nets, for which he found no lack of customers. 

His popularity among the boys was immense. 
A jack-knife in his expert hand was a whole chest 
of tools. He could whittle out anything from a 
wooden chain to a Chinese pagoda, or a full-rigged 
seventy-four a foot long. To own a ship of Sailor 
Ben’s building was to be exalted above your 
fellow-creatures. He didn’t carve many, and 
those he refused to sell, choosing to present them 
to his young friends, of whom Tom Bailey, you 
may be sure, was one. 

How delightful it was of winter nights to sit in 
his cosey cabin, close to the ship’s stove (he 


200 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


wouldn’t hear of having a fireplace), and listen to 
Sailor Ben’s yarns! In the early summer twi- 
lights, when he sat on the doorstep splicing a rope 
or mending a net, he always had a bevy of bloom- 
ing young faces alongside. 

The dear old fellow! How tenderly the years 
touched him after this! — all the more tenderly, 
it seemed, for having roughed him so cruelly in 
other days. 





CHAPTER XVII 
HOW WE ASTONISHED THE RIVERMOUTHIANS 


SAILOR BEN’s arrival partly drove the New Or- 
leans project from my brain. Besides, there was 
just then a certain movement on foot by the 
Centipede Club which helped to engross my at- 
tention. 

Pepper Whitcomb took the uae veto 
philosophically, observing that he thought from 
the first the governor wouldn’t let me go. I don’t 
think Pepper was quite honest in that. 

But to the subject in hand. 

Among the few changes that have taken place 
in Rivermouth during the past twenty years 
there is one which I regret. I lament the removal 
of all those varnished iron cannon which used to 
do duty as posts at the corners of streets leading 
from the river. They were quaintly ornamental, 
each set upon end with a solid shot soldered into 
its mouth, and gave to that part of the town a 


202 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


picturesqueness very poorly atoned for by the 
conventional wooden stakes that have deposed 
them. 

These guns (‘‘old sogers’’ the boys called them) 
had their story, like everything else in River- 
mouth. When that everlasting last war — the 
War of 1812, I mean — came to an end, all the 
brigs, schooners, and barks fitted out at this port 
as privateers were as eager to get rid of their use- 
less twelve-pounders and swivels as they had pre- 
viously been to obtain them. Many of the pieces 
had cost large sums, and now they were little bet- 
ter than so much crude iron — not so good, in 
fact, for they were clumsy things to break up and 
melt over. The government didn’t want them; 
private citizens didn’t want them; they were a 
drug in the market. 

But there was one man, ridiculous beyond his 
generation, who got it into his head that a fortune 
was to be made out of these same guns. To buy 
them all, to hold on te them until war was de- 
clared again (as he had no doubt it would be in a 
few months), and then sell out at fabulous prices 
— this was the daring idea that addled the pate 
of Silas Trefethen, ‘‘ Dealer in E. & W. I. Goods 
and Groceries,” as the faded sign over his shop- 
door informed the public. 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 203 


Silas went shrewdly to work, buying up every 
old cannon he could lay hands on. His back yard 
was soon crowded with broken-down gun-car- 
riages, and his barn with guns, like an arsenal. 
When Silas’s purpose got wind, it was astonishing 
how valuable that thing became which just now 
was worth nothing at all. 

“Ha, ha!’’ thought Silas; ‘‘somebody else is 
tryin’ tu git control of the market. But I guess 
I’ve got the start of him.”’ 

So he went on buying and buying, oftentimes 
paying double the original price of the article. 
People in the neighboring towns collected all the 
worthless ordnance they could find, and sent it 
by the cart-load to Rivermouth. 

When his barn was full, Silas began piling the 
rubbish in his cellar, then in his parlor. He mort- 
gaged the stock of his grocery-store, mortgaged his 
house, his barn, his horse, and would have mort- 
gaged himself, if any one would have taken him as 
security, in order to carry on the grand specula- 
tion. He wasa ruined man, and as happy asa lark. 

Surely poor Silas was cracked, like the majority 
of his own cannon. More or less crazy he must 
have been always. Years before this he purchased 
an elegant rosewood coffin, and kept it in one of 
the spare rooms in his residence. He even had 


204 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


his name engraved on the silver-plate, leaving a 
blank after the word “‘ Died.”’ 

The blank was filled up in due time, and well it 
was for Silas that he secured so stylish a coffin in 
his opulent days, for when he died his worldly 
wealth would not have bought him a pine box, to 
say nothing of rosewood. He never gave up ex- 
pecting a war with Great Britain. Hopeful and 
radiant to the last, his dying words were, England 
— war — few days — great profits! 

It was that sweet old lady, Dame Jocelyn, who 
told me the story of Silas Trefethen; for these 
things happened long before my day. Silas died 
in 1817. 

At Trefethen’s death his unique collection came 
under the auctioneer’s hammer. Some of the 
larger guns were sold to the town, and planted at 
the corners of divers streets; others went off to 
the iron-foundry; the balance, numbering twelve, 
were dumped down on a deserted wharf at the 
foot of Anchor Lane, where, summer after sum- 
mer, they rested at their ease in the grass and 
fungi, pelted in autumn by the rain and annually 
buried by the winter snow. It is with these 
twelve guns that our story has to deal. 

The wharf where they reposed was shut off 
from the street by a high fence — a silent, dreamy 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 205 


old wharf, covered with strange weeds and 
mosses. On account of its seclusion and the 
good fishing it afforded, it was much frequented 
by us boys. | 

There we met many an afternoon to throw out 
our lines, or play leap-frog among the rusty can- 
non. They were famous fellows in our eyes. 
What a racket they had made in the heyday 
of their unchastened youth! What stories they 
might tell now, if their puffy metallic lips could 
only speak! Once they were lively talkers enough; 
but there the grim sea-dogs lay, silent and forlorn 
in spite of all their former growlings. 

They always seemed to me like a lot of vener- 
able disabled tars, stretched out on a lawn in 
front of a hospital, gazing seaward, and mutely 
lamenting their lost youth. 

But once more they were destined to lift 
up their dolorous voices — once more ere they 
keeled over and lay speechless for all time. And 
this is how it befell. 

Jack Harris, Charley Marden, Harry Blake, 
and myself were fishing off the wharf one after- 
noon, when a thought flashed upon me like an 
inspiration. 

“‘T say, boys!” I cried, hauling in my line hand 
over hand, ‘‘I’ve got something!” 


206 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


‘‘What does it pull like, youngster?”’ asked 
Harris, looking down at the taut line and expect- 
ing to see a big perch at least. 

‘‘Oh, nothing in the fish way,’ I returned, 
laughing; “‘it’s about the old guns.” 

‘What about them?”’ 

‘I was thinking what jolly fun it would be to 
set one of the old sogers on his legs and serve him 
out a ration of gunpowder.” 

Up came the three lines in a jiffy. An enter- 
prise better suited to the disposition of my com- 
panions could not have been proposed. 

In a short time we had one of the smaller can- 
non over on its back and were busy scraping the 
green rust from the touch-hole. The mould had 
spiked the gun so effectually, that for a while we 
fancied we should have to give up our attempt to 
resuscitate the old soger. 

‘‘A long gimlet would clear it out,’’ said Char- 
ley Marden, “if we only had one.” 

I looked to see if Sailor Ben’s flag was flying at 
the cabin-door, for he always took in the colors 
when he went off fishing. 

‘“When you want to know if the Admiral’s 
aboard, jest cast an eye to the buntin’, my 
hearties,’’ says Sailor Ben. 

Sometimes in a jocose mood he called himself 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 207 


the Admiral, and I am sure he deserved to be one. 
The Admiral’s flag was flying, and I soon procured 
a gimlet from his carefully kept tool-chest. 

Before long we had the gun in working order. A 
newspaper lashed to the end of a lath served as 
a swab to dust out the bore. Jack Harris blew 
through the touch-hole and pronounced all clear. 

Seeing our task accomplished so easily, we 
turned our attention to the other guns, which lay 
in all sorts of postures in the rank grass. Borrow- 
ing a rope from Sailor Ben, we managed with im- 
mense labor to drag the heavy pieces into position 
and place a brick under each muzzle to give it the 
proper elevation. When we beheld them all in a 
row, like a regular battery, we simultaneously 
conceived an idea, the magnitude of which struck 
us dumb for a moment. 

Our first intention was to load and fire a single 
gun. How feeble and insignificant was such a 
plan compared to that which now sent the light 
dancing into our eyes! 

‘‘What could we have been thinking of?”’ cried 
Jack Harris. ‘We'll give ’em a broadside, to be 
sure, if we die for it!” 

We turned to with a will, and before nightfall 
had nearly half the battery overhauled and ready 
for service. To keep the artillery dry we stuffed 


208 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


wads of loose hemp into the muzzles, and fitted 
wooden pegs to the touch-holes. 

At recess the next noon the Centipedes met in a 
corner of the school-yard to talk over the proposed 
lark. The original projectors, though they would 
have liked to keep the thing secret, were obliged 
to make a club matter of it, inasmuch as funds 
were required for ammunition. There had been 
no recent drain on the treasury, and the society 
could well afford to spend a few dollars in so nota- 
ble an undertaking. 

It was unanimously agreed that the plan should 
be carried out in the handsomest manner, and a 
subscription to that end was taken on the spot. 
Several of the Centipedes hadn’t a cent, excepting 
the one strung around their necks; others, how- 
ever, were richer. I chanced to have a dollar, and 
it went into the cap quicker than lightning. When 
the club, in view of my munificence, voted to name 
the guns Bailey’s Battery I was prouder than I 
have ever been since over anything. 

The money thus raised, added to that already 
in the treasury, amounted to nine dollars —a 
fortune in those days; but not more than we had 
use for. This sum was divided into twelve parts, 
for it would not do for one boy to buy all the 
powder, not even for us all to make our purchases 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 209 


iat the same place. That would excite suspicion 
at any time, particularly at a period so remote 
from the Fourth of July. 

There were only three stores in town licensed to 
sell powder; that gave each store four customers. 
Not to run the slightest risk of remark, one boy 
bought his powder on Monday, the next boy on 
Tuesday, and so on until the requisite quantity 
was in our possession. This we put into a keg 
and carefully hid in a dry spot on the wharf. 

Our next step was to finish cleaning the guns, 
which occupied two afternoons, for several of the 
old sogers were in a very congested state indeed. 
Having completed the task, we came upon a diffi- 
culty. To set off the battery by daylight was out 
of the question; it must be done at night; it must 
be done with fuses, for no doubt the neighbors 
would turn out after the first two or three shots, 
and it would not pay to be caught in the vicinity. 

Who knew anything about fuses? Who could 
arrange it so the guns would go off one after the 
other, with an interval of a minute or so between? 

Theoretically we knew that a minute fuse lasted 
a minute; double the quantity, two minutes; but 
practically we were at a standstill. There was but 
one person who could help us in this extremity — 
Sailor Ben. To me was assigned the duty of ob- 


210 THE STORY OF Av BAD BOY 


taining what information I could from the ex- 
gunner, it being left to my discretion whether or 
not to intrust him with our secret. 

So one evening I dropped into the cabin and 
artfully turned the conversation to fuses in gen- 
eral, and then to particular fuses, but without 
getting much out of the old boy, who was busy 
making a twine hammock. Finally, I was forced 
to divulge the whole plot. 

The Admiral had a sailor’s love for a joke, and 
entered at once and heartily into our scheme. He 
volunteered to prepare the fuses himself, and I 
left the labor in his hands, having bound him by 
several extraordinary oaths — such as “ Hope-I- 
may-die”’ and ‘‘Shiver-my-timbers’’ — not to be- 
tray us, come what would. 

This was Monday evening. On Wednesday the 
fuses were ready. That night we were to unmuz- 
zle Bailey’s Battery. Mr. Grimshaw saw that 
something was wrong somewhere, for we were 
restless and absent-minded in the classes, and the 
best of us came to grief before the morning session 
was over. When Mr. Grimshaw announced ‘‘ Guy 
Fawkes”’ as the subject for our next composition, 
you might have knocked down the peur Twelve 
with a feather. | 

The coincidence was certainly curious, but when 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS a11 


a man has committed, or is about to commit, 
an offence, a hundred trifles, which would pass 
unnoticed at another time, seem to point at him 
with convicting fingers. No doubt Guy Fawkes 
himself received many a start after he had got his 
wicked kegs of gunpowder neatly piled up under 
the House of Lords. 

Wednesday, as I have mentioned, was a half- 
holiday, and the Centipedes assembled in my 
barn to decide on the final arrangements. These 
were as simple as could be. As the fuses were con- 
nected, it needed but one person to fire the train. 
Hereupon arose a discussion as to who was the 
proper person. Some argued that I ought to ap- 
ply the match, the battery being christened after 
me, and the main idea, moreover, being mine. 
Others advocated the claim of Phil Adams as the 
oldest boy. At last we drew lots for the post of 
honor. 

Twelve slips of folded paper, upon one of which 
was written ‘‘Thou art the man,”’ were placed in 
a quart measure, and thoroughly shaken; then 
each member stepped up and lifted out his des- 
tiny. At a given signal we opened our billets. 
“Thou art the man,” said the slip of paper trem- 
bling in my fingers. The sweets and anxieties of a 
leader were mine the rest of the afternoon. 


212 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Directly after twilight set in Phil Adams stole 
down to the wharf and fixed the fuses to the guns, 
laying a train of powder from the principal fuse to 
the,fence, through a chink of which I was to drop 
the match at midnight. ” 

At ten o’clock Rivermouth goes to bed. At 
eleven o’clock Rivermouth is as quiet as a country 
churchyard. At twelve o’clock there is nothing 
left with which to compare the stillness that 
broods over the little seaport. 

In the midst of this stillness I arose and glided 
out of the house like a phantom bent on an evil 
errand; like a phantom I flitted through the silent 
street, hardly drawing breath until I knelt down 
beside the fence at the appointed place. — 

Pausing a moment for my heart to stop thump- 
ing, I lighted the match and shielded it with both 
hands until it was well under way, and then 
dropped the blazing splinter on the slender thread 
of gunpowder. 

A noiseless flash instantly followed, and all was 
dark again. [ peeped through the crevice in the 
fence, and saw the main fuse spitting out sparks 
like.a conjurer. Assured that the train had not 
failed, I took to my heels, fearful lest the fuse 
might burn more rapidly than we calculated, and 
cause an explosion before I could get home. This, 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 213 


luckily, did not happen. There’s a special Provi- 
_ dence that watches over idiots, drunken men, and 
sea : he eet lateatedaat Bamedinevintess 

I dodged the ceremony of undressing by plung- 
ing into bed, jacket, boots, and all. I am not sure 
I took off my cap; but I know that I had hardly 
pulled the coverlid over me, when ‘ Boom!” 
sounded the first gun of Bailey’s Battery. 

I lay as still as a mouse. In less than two min- 
utes there was another burst of thunder, and then 
another. The third gun was a tremendous fellow 
and fairly shook the house. 

The town was waking up. Windows were 
thrown open here and there and people called to 
each other across the streets asking what that 

_ firing was for. 

‘“‘Boom!’’ went gun number four. 

. I sprung out of bed and tore off my jacket, for 
I heard the Captain feeling his way along the wall 
to my chamber. I was half undressed by the time 
he found the knob of the door. 

“T say, sir,” I cried, ‘‘do you hear those guns?” 

“Not being deaf, I do,’”’ said the Captain, a 
little tartly — any reflection on his hearing al- 
ways nettled him; ‘‘but what on earth they are 
for I can’t conceive. You had better get up and 
dress yourself.”’ 


214. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


‘“‘T’m nearly dressed, sir.”’ 

‘‘Boom! Boom!’’ — two of the guns had gone 
off together. 

The door of Miss Abigail’s bedroom opened 
hastily, and that pink of maidenly propriety 
stepped out into the hall in her night-gown — the 
only indecorous thing I ever knew her to do. She 
held a lighted candle in her hand and looked like 
a very aged Lady Macbeth. 

“OQ Dan’el, this is dreadful! What do you sup- 
pose it means?”’ 

‘“‘T really can’t suppose,’’ said the Captain, rub- 
bing his ear; ‘‘but I guess it’s over now.”’ 

‘‘Boom!”’ said Bailey’s Battery. 

Rivermouth was wide awake now, and half the 
male population were in the streets, running dif- 
ferent ways, for the firing seemed to proceed from 
opposite points of the town. Everybody waylaid 
everybody else with questions; but’ as no one 
knew what was the occasion of the tumult, people 
who were not usually nervous began to be op- 
pressed by the mystery. 

Some thought the town was being bombarded; 
some thought the world was coming to an end, as 
the pious and ingenious Mr. Miller had predicted 
it would; but those who couldn’t form any theory 
whatever were the most perplexed. 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 215 


In the meanwhile Bailey’s Battery bellowed 
away at regular intervals. The greatest confusion 
reigned everywhere by this time. People with lan- 
terns rushed hither and thither. The town-watch 
had turned out to a man, and marched off, in ad- 
mirable order, in the wrong direction. Discover- 
ing their mistake, they retraced their steps, and 
got down to the wharf just as the last cannon 
belched forth its lightning. 

A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated over 
Anchor Lane, obscuring the starlight. Two or 
three hundred people, in various stages of excite- 
ment, crowded about the upper end of the wharf, 
not liking to advance farther until they were satis- 
fied that the explosions were over. A board was 
here and there blown from the fence, and through 
the openings thus afforded a few of the more dar- 
ing spirits at length ventured to crawl. 

The cause of the racket soon transpired. A sus- 
picion that they had been sold gradually dawned 
on the Rivermouthians. Many were exceedingly 
indignant, and declared that no penalty was se- 
vere enough for those concerned in such a prank; 
others — and these were the very people who had 
been terrified nearly out of their wits — had the 
assurance to laugh, saying that they knew all 
along it was only a trick. 


216 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


The town-watch boldly took possession of the 
ground, and the crowd began to disperse. Knots 
of gossips lingered here and there near the place, 
indulging in vain surmises as to who the invisible 
gunners could be. 

There was no more noise that night, but many 
a timid person lay awake expecting a renewal of 
the mysterious cannonading. The Oldest Inhab- 
itant refused to go to bed on any terms, but per- 
sisted in sitting up in a rocking-chair, with his hat 
and mittens on, until daybreak. 

I thought I should never get to sleep. The mo- 
ment I drifted off in a doze I fell to laughing and 
woke myself up. But towards morning slumber 
overtook me, and I had a series of disagreeable 
dreams, in one of which I was waited upon by the 
ghost of Silas Trefethen with an exorbitant bill 
for the use of his guns. In another, I was dragged 
before a court-martial and sentenced by Sailor 
Ben, in a frizzled wig and three-cornered cocked 
hat, to be shot to death by Bailey’s Battery —a 
sentence which Sailor Ben was about to execute 
with his own hand, when I suddenly opened my 
eyes and found the sunshine lying pleasantly 
across my face. I tell you I was glad! 

That unaccountable fascination which leads the 
guilty to hover about the spot where his crime 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 217 


was committed drew me down to the wharf as 
soon as I was dressed. Phil Adams, Jack Harris, 
and others of the conspirators were already there, 
examining with a mingled feeling of curiosity and 
apprehension the havoc accomplished by the 
battery. 

The fence was badly shattered and the ground 
ploughed up for several yards round the place 
where the guns formerly lay — formerly lay, for 
now they were scattered every which way. There 
was scarcely a gun that hadn’t burst. Here was 
one ripped open from muzzle to breech, and there 
was another with its mouth blown into the shape 
of a trumpet. Three of the guns had disappeared 
bodily, but on looking over the edge of the wharf 
we saw them standing on end in the tide-mud. 
They had popped overboard in their excitement. 

“‘T tell you what, fellows,’’ whispered Phil Ad- 
ams, “‘it is lucky we didn’t try to touch ’em off 
with punk. They’d have blown us all to flinders.”’ 

The destruction of Bailey’s Battery was not, 
unfortunately, the only catastrophe. A fragment 
of one of the cannon had carried away the chim- 
ney of Sailor Ben’s cabin. He was very mad at 
first, but having prepared the fuse himself he 
didn’t dare complain openly. 

‘“‘T’d have taken a reef in the blessed stove- 


218 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


pipe,” said the Admiral, gazing ruefully at the 
smashed chimney, “if I had known as how the 
Flagship was agoin’ to be under fire.” 

The next day he rigged out an iron funnel, 
which, being in sections, could be detached and 
taken in at a moment’s notice. On the whole, I 
think he was resigned to the demolition of his 
brick chimney. The stove-pipe was a great deal 
more ship-shape. 

The town was not so easily appeased. The 
selectmen determined to make an example of the 
guilty parties, and offered a reward for their ar- 
rest, holding out a promise of pardon to any one 
of the offenders who would furnish information 
against the rest. But there were no faint hearts 
among the Centipedes. Suspicion rested for a 
while on several persons — on the soldiers at the 
fort; on a crazy fellow, known about town as 
‘‘Bottle-Nose’’; and at last on Sailor Ben. 

‘Shiver my timbers!’’ cries that deeply injured 
individual. ‘‘Do you suppose, sir, as I have lived 
to sixty year, an’ ain’t got no more sense than to 
go for to blaze away at my own upper riggin’? It 
doesn’t stand to reason.”’ 

It certainly did not seem probable that Mr. 
Watson would maliciously knock over his own 
chimney, and Lawyer Hackett, who had the case 


ASTONISH RIVERMOUTHIANS 19 


in hand, bowed himself out of the Admiral’s cabin 
convinced that the right man had not been dis- 
covered. 

People living by the sea are always more or less 
superstitious. Stories of spectre ships and mys- 
terious beacons, that lure vessels out of their 
course and wreck them on unknown reefs, were 
among the stock legends of Rivermouth; and not 
a few people in the town were ready to attribute 
the firing of those guns to some supernatural 
agency. The Oldest Inhabitant remembered that 
when he was a boy a dim-looking sort of schooner 
hove to in the offing one foggy afternoon, fired off 
a single gun that didn’t make any report, and then 
crumbled to nothing, spar, mast, and hulk, like a 
piece of burnt paper. 

The authorities, however, were of the opinion 
that human hands had something to do with the 
explosions, and they resorted to deep-laid strata- 
gems to get hold of the said hands. One of their 
traps came very near catching us. They artfully 
caused an old brass field-piece to be left on a wharf 
near the scene of our late operations. Nothing in 
the world but the lack of money to buy powder 
saved us from falling into the clutches of the two 
watchmen who lay secreted for a week in a neigh- 
boring sail-loft. 


220 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


It was many a day before the midnight bom- 
dardment ceased to be the town-talk. The trick 
was so audacious and on so grand a scale that no- 
dody thought for an instant of connecting us lads 
with it. Suspicion at length grew weary of light- 
ing on the wrong person, and as conjecture — like 
the physicians in the epitaph — was in vain, the 
Rivermouthians gave up the idea of finding out 
who had astonished them. 

They never did find out, and never will, unless 
they read this veracious history. If the selectmen 
are still disposed to punish the malefactors, I can 
supply Lawyer Hackett with evidence enough to 
convict Pepper Whitcomb, Phil Adams, Charley 
Marden, and the other honorable members of the 
Centipede Club. But really I don’t think it would 
pay now. 





A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO 


Ir the reader supposes that I lived all this while in 
Rivermouth without falling a victim to one or 
more of the young ladies attending Miss Dorothy 
Gibbs’s Female Institute, why, then, all I have to 
say is the reader exhibits his ignorance of human 
nature. 

Miss Gibbs’s seminary was located within a few 
minutes’ walk of the Temple Grammar School, 
and numbered about thirty-five pupils, the ma- 
jority of whom boarded at the Hall — Primrose 
Hall, as Miss Dorothy prettily called it. The 
primroses, as we called them, ranged from seven 
years of age to sweet seventeen, and a prettier 
group of sirens never got together even in River- 
mouth, for Rivermouth, you should know, is fa- 
mous for its pretty girls. There were tall girls ana 
short girls, rosy girls and pale girls, and girls as 


222 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


brown as berries; girls like Amazons, slender girls, 
weird and winning like Undine, girls with black 
tresses, girls with auburn ringlets, girls with every 
tinge of golden hair. To behold Miss Dorothy’s 
young ladies of a Sunday morning walking to 
church two by two, the smallest toddling at the 
end of the procession, like the bobs at the tail of a 
kite, was a spectacle to fill with tender emotion 
the least susceptible heart. To see Miss Dorothy 
marching grimly at the head of her light infantry, 
was to feel the hopelessness of making an attack 
on any part of the column. 

She was a perfect dragon of watchfulness. The 
most unguarded lifting of an eyelash in the flutter- 
ing battalion was sufficient to put her on the look- 
out. She had had experiences with the male sex, 
this Miss Dorothy so prim and grim. It was whis- 
pered that her heart was a tattered album scrawled 
over with love-lines, but that she had shut up the 
volume long ago. 

There was a tradition that she had been crossed 
in love; but it was the faintest of traditions. A 
gay young lieutenant of marines had flirted with 
her at a country ball (A.D. 1811), and then marched 
carelessly away at the head of his company to the 
shrill music of the fife, without so much as a sigh 
for the girl he left behind him. The years rolled 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 223 


on, the gallant gay Lothario — which wasn’t his 
name — married, became a father, and then a 
grandfather; and at the period of which I am 
speaking his grandchild was actually one of Miss 
Dorothy’s young ladies. So, at least, ran the story. 

The lieutenant himself was dead these many 
years; but Miss Dorothy never got over his du- 
plicity. She was convinced that the sole aim of 
mankind was to win the unguarded affection of 
maidens, and then march off treacherously with 
flying colors to the heartless music of the drum 
and fife. To shield the inmates of Primrose Hall 
from the bitter influences that had blighted her 
own early affections was Miss Dorothy’s mission 
in life. 

‘“‘No wolves prowling about my lambs, if you 
please,’’ said Miss Dorothy. ‘I will not allow it.” 

She was as good as her word. I don’t think the 
boy lives who ever set foot within the limits of 
Primrose Hall while the seminary was under her 
charge. Perhaps if Miss Dorothy had given her 
young ladies a little more liberty, they would not 
have thought it “‘such fun”’ to make eyes over the 
white lattice fence at the young gentlemen of the 
Temple Grammar School. I say perhaps; for it is 
one thing to manage thirty-five young ladies and 
quite another thing to talk about it. 


224 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


But all Miss Dorothy’s vigilance could not pre- 
vent the young folks from meeting in the town 
now and then, nor could her utmost ingenuity in- 
terrupt postal arrangements. There was no end 
of notes passing between the students and the 
Primroses. Notes tied to the heads of arrows 
were shot into dormitory windows; notes were 
tucked under fences, and hidden in the trunks of 
decayed trees. Every thick place in the boxwood 
hedge that surrounded the seminary was a possi- 
ble post-office. 

It was a terrible shock to Miss Dorothy the day 
she unearthed a nest of letters in one of the huge 
wooden urns surmounting the gateway that led to 
her dovecot. It was a bitter moment to Miss 
Phoebe and Miss Candace and Miss Hesba, when 
they had their locks of hair grimly handed back 
to them by Miss Gibbs in the presence of the 
whole school. Girls whose locks of hair had run 
the blockade in safety were particularly severe on 
the offenders. But it didn’t stop other notes and 
other tresses, and I would like to know what can 
stop them while the earth holds together. 

Now when I first came to Rivermouth I looked 
upon girls as rather tame company; I hadn’t a 
spark of sentiment concerning them; but seeing 
my comrades sending and receiving mysterious 


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, i< a 
. f 2 2 A P 
¢ = = 

c <_/ J 
f , 

. / f 

hos A 

bad a, / - 








NOTES WERE HIDDEN IN THE TRUNKS OF DECAYED TREES 


Pa 





A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 225 


epistles, wearing bits of ribbon in their button- 
holes and leaving packages of confectionery (gen- 
erally lemon-drops) in the hollow trunks of trees 
— why, I felt that this was the proper thing to do. 
I resolved, as a matter of duty, to fall in love with 
somebody, and I didn’t care in the least who it 
was. In much the same mood that Don Quixote 
selected the Dulcinea del Toboso for his lady-love, 
I singled out one of Miss Dorothy’s incomparable 
young ladies for mine. 

I debated a long while whether I should not 
select two, but at last settled down on one —a 
pale little girl with blue eyes, named Alice. I shall 
not make a long story of this, for Alice made short 
work of me. She was secretly in love with Pepper 
Whitcomb. This occasioned a temporary coolness 
between Pepper and myself. 

Not disheartened, however, I placed Laura 
Rice — I believe it was Laura Rice — in the va- 
cant niche. The new idol was more cruel than the 
old. The former frankly sent me to the right 
about, but the latter was a deceitful lot. She wore 
my nosegay in her dress at the evening service 
(the Primroses were marched to church three 
times every Sunday), she penned me the daintiest 
of notes, she sent me the glossiest of ringlets (cut, 
as I afterwards found out, from the stupid head 


226 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


of Miss Gibbs’s chamber-maid), and at the same 
time was holding me and my pony up to ridicule 
in a series of letters written to Jack Harris. It 
was Harris himself who kindly opened my eyes. 

“T tell you what, Bailey,’ said that young 
gentleman, ‘‘ Laura is an old veteran, and carries 
too many guns for a youngster. She can’t resist a 
flirtation; I believe she’d flirt with an infant in 
arms. There’s hardly a fellow in the school that 
hasn’t worn her colors and some of her hair. She 
doesn’t give out any more of her own hair now. 
It’s been pretty well used up. The demand was 
greater than the supply, you see. It’s all very well 
to correspond with Laura, but as to looking for 
anything serious from her, the knowing ones don’t. 
Hope I haven’t hurt your feelings, old boy”’ (that 
was a soothing stroke of flattery to call me ‘‘old 
boy’’), ‘‘but ’twas my duty as a friend and a Cen- 
tipede to let you know who you were dealing 
with.” 

Such was the advice given me by that time- 
stricken, care-worn, and embittered man of the 
world, who was sixteen years old if he was a 
day. 

I dropped Laura. In the course of the next 
twelve months I had perhaps three or four similar 
experiences, and the conclusion was forced upon 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 227 


me that I was not a boy likely to distinguish my- 
self in this branch of business. 

I fought shy of Primrose Hall from that mo- 
ment. Smiles were smiled over the boxwood 
hedge, and little hands were occasionally kissed 
to me; but I only winked my eye patronizingly, 
and passed on. I never renewed tender relations 
with Miss Gibbs’s young ladies. All this occurred 
during my first year and a half at Rivermouth. 

Between my studies at school, my out-door 
recreations, and the hurts my vanity received, I 
managed to escape for the time being any very 
serious attack of that love fever which, like the 
measles, is almost certain to seize upon a boy 
sooner or later. I was not to be an exception. I 
was merely biding my time. The incidents I have 
now to relate took place shortly after the events 
described in the last chapter. 


In a life so tranquil and circumscribed as ours 
in the Nutter House, a visitor was a novelty of no 
little importance. The whole household awoke 
from its quietude one morning when the Captain 
announced that a young niece of his from New 
York was to spend a few weeks with us. 

The blue-chintz room, into which a ray of sun 
was never allowed to penetrate, was thrown open 


228 THE STORY OF A BAD Rae 


and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with 
a bouquet of pot-roses placed on the old-fashioned 
bureau. Kitty was busy all the forenoon washing 
off the sidewalk and sand-papering the great 
brass knocker on our front-door; and Miss Abi- 
gail was up to her elbows in a pigeon-pie. 

I felt sure it was for no ordinary person that all 
these preparations were in progress; and I was 
right. Miss Nelly Glentworth was no ordinary 
person. [ shall never believe she was. There may 
have been lovelier women, though I have never 
seen them; there may have been more brilliant 
women, though it has not been my fortune to 
meet them; but that there was ever a more charm- 
ing one than Nelly Glentworth is a proposition 
against which I contend. 

I don’t love her now. I don’t think of her once 
in five years; and yet it would give me a turn if in 
the course of my daily walk I should suddenly 
come upon her eldest boy. I may say that her 
eldest boy was not playing a prominent part in 
this life when I first made her acquaintance. 

It was a drizzling, cheerless afternoon towards 
the end of summer that a hack drew up at the 
door of the Nutter House. The Captain and Miss 
Abigail hastened into the hall on hearing the car- 
riage stop. In a moment more Miss Nelly Glent- 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 229 


worth was seated in our sitting-room undergoing 
a critical examination at the hands of a small boy 
who lounged uncomfortably on a settee between 
the windows. 

The small boy considered himself a judge of 
girls, and he rapidly came to the following con- 
clusions: That Miss Nelly was about nineteen; 
that she had not given away much of her back 
hair, which hung in two massive chestnut braids 
over her shoulders; that she was a shade too pale 
and a trifle too tall; that her hands were nicely 
shaped and her feet much too diminutive for 
daily use. He furthermore observed that her 
voice was musical, and that her face lighted 
up with an indescribable brightness when she 
smiled. 

On the whole, the small boy liked her well 
enough; and, satisfied that she was not a person to 
be afraid of, but, on the contrary, one who might 
be made quite agreeable, he departed to keep an 
appointment with his friend Sir Pepper Whit- 
comb. 

But the next morning when Miss Glentworth 
came down to breakfast in a purple dress, her face 
as fresh as one of the moss-roses on the bureau up- 
stairs, and her laugh as contagious as the merri- 
ment of a robin, the small boy experienced a 


230 THE STORY ‘OF ‘A (BAD FBG 


strange sensation, and mentally compared her 
with the loveliest of Miss Gibbs’s young ladies, 
and found those young ladies wanting in the bal- 
ance. 

A night’s rest had wrought a wonderful change 
in Miss Nelly. The pallor and weariness of the 
journey had passed away. I looked at her through 
the toast-rack and thought I had never seen any- 
thing more winning than her smile. 

After breakfast she went out with me to the 
stable to see Gypsy, and the three of us became 
friends then and there. Nelly was the only girl 
that Gypsy ever took the slightest notice of. 

It chanced to be a half-holiday, and a baseball 
match of unusual interest was to come off on the 
school ground that afternoon; but, somehow, I 
didn’t go. I hung about the ‘house abstractedly. 
The Captain went up town, and Miss Abigail was 
busy in the kitchen making immortal ginger- 
bread. I drifted into the sitting-room, and had 
our guest all to myself for I don’t know how 
many hours. It was twilight, I recollect, when the 
Captain returned with letters for Miss Nelly. 

Many a time after that I sat with her through 
the dreamy September afternoons. If I had 
played baseball it would have been much better 
for me. | 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 231 


Those first days of Miss Nelly’s visit are very 
misty in my remembrance. I try in vain to re- 
member just when I began to fall in love with her. 
Whether the spell worked upon me gradually or 
fell upon me all at once, I don’t know. I only 
know that it seemed to me as if I had always loved 
her. Things that took place before she came were 
dim to me, like events that had occurred in the 
Middle Ages. 

Nelly was at least five years my senior. But 
what of that? Adam is the only man I ever heard 
of who didn’t in early youth fall in love with a 
woman older than himself, and I am convinced 
that he would have done so if he had had the op- 
portunity. 

I wonder if girls from fifteen to twenty are 
aware of the glamour they cast over the strag- 
gling, awkward boys whom they regard and treat 
as mere children? I wonder, now. Young women 
are so keen in such matters. I wonder if Miss 
Nelly Glentworth never suspected until the very 
last night of her visit at Rivermouth that I was 
over ears in love with her pretty self, and was suf- 
fering pangs as poignant as if I had been ten feet 
high and as old as Methuselah? For, indeed, I 
was miserable throughout all those five weeks. I 
went down in the Latin class at the rate of three 


232 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY | 


boys a day. Her fresh young eyes came between 
me and my book, and there was an end of Virgil. 
‘O love, love, love! 
- Love is like a dizziness, 


It winna let a body 
Gang aboot his business.” 


I was wretched away from her, and only less 
wretched in her presence. The especial cause of 
my woe was this: I was simply a little boy to Miss 
Glentworth. I knew it. I bewailed it. I ground 
my teeth and wept in secret over the fact. If I 
had been aught else in her eyes would she have 
smoothed my hair so carelessly, sending an elec- 
tric shock through my whole system? would she 
have walked with me, hand in hand, for hours in 
the old garden? and once when I lay on the sofa, 
my head aching with love and mortification, 
would she have stooped down and kissed me if I 
hadn’t been a little boy? How I despised little 
boys! How I hated one particular little boy — 
too little to be loved! 

I smile over this very grimly even now. My sor- 
row was genuine and bitter. It is a great mistake 
on the part’of elderly ladies, male and female, to 
tell a child that he is seeing his happiest days. 
Don’t you believe a word of it, my little friend. 
The burdens of childhood are as hard to bear as 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 233 


the crosses that weigh us down later in life, while 
the happinesses of childhood are tame compared 
with those of our maturer years. And even if 
this were not so, it is rank cruelty to throw shad- 
ows over the young heart by croaking, ‘‘ Be merry, 
for to-morrow you die!”’ 

As the last days of Nelly’s visit drew near, I fell 
into a very unhealthy state of mind. To have her 
so frank and unconsciously coquettish with me 
was a daily torment; to be looked upon and treated 
as a child was bitter almonds; but the thought of 
losing her altogether was distraction. 

The summer was at anend. The days were per- 
ceptibly shorter, and now and then came an eve- 
ning when it was chilly enough to have a wood-fire 
in our sitting-room. The leaves were beginning to 
take hectic tints, and the wind was practising the 
minor pathetic notes of its autumnal dirge. Na- 
ture and myself appeared to be approaching our 
dissolution simultaneously. 

One evening, the evening previous to the day 
set for Nelly’s departure — how well I remember 
it! — I found her sitting alone by the wide chim- 
ney-piece looking musingly at the crackling back- 
log. There were no candles in the room. On her 
face and hands, and on the small golden cross 
at her throat, fell the flickering firelight — that 


234 THE STORY OF A' BAD BGs 


ruddy, mellow firelight in which one’s grand- 
mother would look poetical. 

I drew a low stool from the corner and placcd it 
by the side of her chair. She reached out her hand 
to me, as was her pretty fashion, and so we sat for 
several moments silently in the changing glow of 
the burning logs. At length I moved back the 
stool so that I could see her face in profile without 
being seen by her. I lost her hand by this move- 
ment, but I couldn’t have spoken with the listless 
touch of her fingers on mine. After two or three 
attempts I said ‘‘ Nelly”’ a good deal louder than I 
intended. 

Perhaps the effort it cost me was evident in my 
voice. She raised herself quickly in the chair and 
half turned towards me. 

“Well, Tom?’’ 

‘‘] — I am very sorry you are going away.” 

‘So am I. I have enjoyed every hour of my 
visit.” 

“Do you think you will ever come back here?”’ 

‘Perhaps,’ said Nelly, and her eyes wandered 
off into the fitful firelight. 

‘“‘T suppose you will forget us all very quickly.” 

“Indeed, I shall not. I shall always have the 
pleasantest memories of Rivermouth.”’ 

Here the conversation died a natural death. 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 235 


Nelly sank into a sort of dream, and I meditated. 
Fearing every moment to be interrupted by some 
member of the family, I nerved myself to make a 
bold dash. 

“ Nelly.” 

“Well.” 

“‘Do you —’”’ I hesitated. 

“Do I what?” 

“Love any one very much?” 

“Why, of course I do,” said Nelly, scattering 
her reverie with a merry laugh. ‘‘I love Uncle 
Nutter, and Aunt Nutter, and you — and Tow- 
ser.” 

Towser, our new dog! I couldn’t stand that. I 
pushed back the stool impatiently and stood in 
front of her. 

‘““That’s not what I mean,’ I said angrily. 

“Well, what do you mean?”’ 

‘Do you love any one to marry him?” 

‘The idea of it,’’ cried Nelly, laughing. 

‘“‘But you must tell me.”’ 

“Must, Tom?” 

“Indeed you must, Nelly.” 

She had risen from the chair with an amused, 
perplexed look in her eyes. I held her an instant 
by the dress. 

“Please tell me.” 


236 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


“Oh, you silly boy!’’ cried Nelly. Then she 
rumpled my hair all over my forehead and ran 
laughing out of the room. 

Suppose Cinderella had rumpled the Prince’s 
hair all over his forehead, how would he have liked 
it? Suppose the Sleeping Beauty, when the king’s 
son with a kiss set her and all the old clocks agoing 
in the spell-bound castle — suppose the young 
minx had looked up and coolly laughed in his eye, 
I guess the king’s son wouldn’t have been greatly 
pleased. 

I hesitated a second or two and then rushed 
after Nelly just in time to run against Miss Abi- 
gail, who entered the room with a couple of lighted 
candles. 

“Goodness gracious, Tom!’’ exclaimed Miss 
Abigail, “‘are you possessed ?”’ 

I left her scraping the warm spermaceti from 
one of her thumbs. 

Nelly was in the kitchen talking quite uncon- 
cernedly with Kitty Collins. There she remained 
until supper-time. Supper over, we all adjourned 
to the sitting-room. I planned and plotted, but 
could manage in no way to get Nelly alone. She 
and the Captain played cribbage all the evening. 

The next morning my lady did not make her ap- 
pearance until we were seated at the breakfast- 


A FROG WOULD A-WOOING GO 237 


table. I had got up at daylight myself. Immedi- 
ately after breakfast, the carriage arrived to take 
her to the railway station. A gentleman stepped 
from this carriage, and greatly to my surprise 
was warmly welcomed by the Captain and Miss 
Abigail, and by Miss Nelly herself, who seemed 
unnecessarily glad to see him. From the hasty 
conversation that followed I learned that the 
gentleman had come somewhat unexpectedly to 
conduct Miss Nelly to Boston. But how did he 
know that she was to leave that morning? Nelly 
bade farewell to the Captain and Miss Abigail, 
made a little rush and kissed me on the nose, and 
was gone. 

As the wheels of the hack rolled up the street 
and over my finer feelings, I turned to the Cap- 
tain. | 
‘‘Who was that gentleman, sir?” 

“That was Mr. Waldron.” 

‘fA relation of yours, sir?’’ I asked craftily. 

“No relation of mine — a relation of Nelly’s,” 
said the Captain, smiling. 

‘“‘A cousin,” I suggested, feeling a strange ha- 
tred spring up in my bosom for the unknown. 

“Well, I suppose you might call him a cousin 
for the present. He’s going to marry little Nelly 
next summer.” 


238 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


In one of Peter Parley’s valuable historical 
works is a description of an earthquake at Lisbon. 
“At the first shock the inhabitants rushed into 
the streets; the earth yawned at their feet and the 
houses tottered and fell on every side.’ I stag- 
gered past the Captain into the street; a giddiness 
came over me; the earth yawned at my feet, and 
the houses threatened to fall in on every side of 
me. How distinctly I remember that momentary 
sense of confusion when everything in the world 
seemed toppling over into ruins. 

As I have remarked, my love for Nelly is a 
thing of the past. [ had not thought of her for 
years until I sat down to write this chapter, and 
yet, now that all is said and done, I shouldn’t 
care particularly to come across Mrs. Waldron’s 
eldest boy in my afternoon’s walk. He must be 
fourteen or fifteen years old by this time — the 
young villain! 





CHAPTER XIX 
I BECOME A BLIGHTED BEING 


WHEN a young boy gets to be an old boy, when 
the hair is growing rather thin on the top of the 
old boy’s head, and he has been tamed sufficiently 
to take a sort of chastened pleasure in allowing the 
baby to play with his watch-seals — when, I say, 
an old boy has reached this stage in the journey 
of life, he is sometimes apt to indulge in sportive 
remarks concerning his first love. 

Now, though I bless my stars that it wasn’t in 
my power to marry Miss Nelly, I am not goingto 
deny my boyish regard for her nor laugh at it. As 
long as it lasted it was a very sincere and unselfish 
love, and rendered me proportionately wretched. 
I say as long as it lasted, for one’s first love doesn’t 
last forever. 

I am ready, however, to laugh at the amusing 


240 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


figure I cut after I had really ceased to have any 
deep feeling in the matter. It was then I took it 
into my head to be a Blighted Being. This was 
about two weeks after the spectral appearance of 
Mr. Waldron. 

For a boy of a naturally vivacious disposition 
the part of a Blighted Being presented difficulties. 
I had an excellent appetite, I liked society, I liked 
out-of-door sports, I was fond of handsome clothes. 
Now all these things were incompatible with the 
doleful character I was to assume, and I proceeded 
to cast them from me. I neglected my hair. I 
avoided my playmates. I frowned abstractedly. 
I didn’t eat as much as was good for me. I took 
lonely walks. I brooded in solitude. I not only 
committed to memory the more turgid poems of 
the late Lord Byron — “Fare thee well, and if 
forever,’ etc. — but I became a despondent poet 
on my own account, and composed a string of 
‘‘Stanzas to One who will understand them.” I 
think I was a trifle too hopeful on that point; for 
I came across the verses several years afterwards, 
and was quite unable to understand them myself. 

It was a great comfort to be so perfectly miser- 
able and yet not suffer any. I used to look in the 
glass and gloat over the amount and variety of 
mournful expression I could throw into my fea- 


I BECOME A BLIGHTED BEING 241 


tures. If I caught myself smiling at anything, I 
cut the smile short with a sigh. The oddest thing 
about all this is, I never once suspected that I was 
not unhappy. No one, not even Pepper Whitcomb 
was more deceived than I. 

Among the minor pleasures of being blighted 
were the interest and perplexity I excited in the 
siniple souls that were thrown in daily contact 
with me. Pepper especially. I nearly drove him 
into a corresponding state of mind. 

I had from time to time given Pepper slight but 
impressive hints of my admiration for Some One 
(this was in the early part of Miss Glentworth’s 
visit) ; I had also led him to infer that my admira- 
tion was not altogether in vain. He was therefore 
unable to explain the cause of my strange behav- 
ior, for I had carefully refrained from mentioning 
to Pepper the fact that Some One had turned out 
to be Another’s. 

I treated Pepper shabbily. I couldn’t resist 
playing on his tenderer feelings. He was a boy 
bubbling over with sympathy for any one in any 
kind of trouble. Our intimacy since Binny Wal- 
lace’s death had been uninterrupted; but now I 
moved in a sphere apart, not to be profaned by 
the step of an outsider. 

I no longer joined the boys on the playground 


242° THE STORY OF A BADsBOy 


at recess. I stayed at my desk reading some lugu- 
brious volume — usually ‘‘The Mysteries of Udol- 
pho,’”’ by the amiable Mrs. Radcliffe. A transla- 
tion of ‘‘The Sorrows of Werther’’ fell into my 
hands at this period, and if I could have com- 
mitted suicide without killing myself, I should 
certainly have done so. 

On half-holidays, instead of fraternizing with 
. Pepper and the rest of our clique, I would wander 
off alone to Grave Point. 

Grave Point — the place where Binny Wal- 
lace’s body came ashore — was a narrow strip of 
land running out into the river. A line of Lom- 
bardy poplars, stiff and severe, like a row of gren- 
adiers, mounted guard on the water-side. On the 
extreme end of the peninsula was an old disused 
graveyard, tenanted principally by the early set- 
tlers who had been scalped by the Indians. Ina 
remote corner of the cemetery, set apart from 
the other mounds, was the grave of a woman who 
had been hanged in the old colonial times for the 
murder of her infant. Goodwife Polly Haines had 
denied the crime to the last, and after her death 
there had arisen strong doubts as to her actual 
guilt. It was a belief current among the lads of 
the town, that if you went to this grave at night- 
fall on the 1oth of November — the anniversary 


I BECOME A BLIGHTED BEING 243 


of her execution — and asked, ‘‘ For what did the 
magistrates hang you?’’ a voice would reply, 
*“‘Nothing.”’ 

Many a Rivermouth boy has tremblingly put 
this question in the dark, and, sure enough, Polly 
Haines invariably answered nothing! 

A low red-brick wall, broken down in many 
places and frosted over with silvery moss, sur- 
rounded this burial-ground of our Pilgrim Fathers 
and their immediate descendants. The latest date 
on any of the headstones was 1780. A crop of 
very funny epitaphs sprung up here and there 
among the overgrown thistles and burdocks, and 
almost every tablet had a death’s-head with cross- 
bones engraved upon it, or else a puffy round face 
with a pair of wings stretching out from the ears, 


like this: 


These mortuary emblems furnished me with 
congenial food for reflection. I used to lie in the 
long grass, and speculate on the advantages and 
disadvantages of being a cherub. 

I forget what I thought the advantages were, 
but I remember distinctly of getting into an in- 
extricable tangle on two points: How could a 


244 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


cherub, being all head and wings, manage to sit 
down when he was tired? To have to sit down on 
the back of his head struck me as an awkward al- 
ternative. Again: Where did a cherub carry those 
indispensable articles (such as jack-knives, mar- 
bles, and pieces of twine) which boys in an earthly 
state of existence usually stow away in their trou- 
sers-pockets? 

These were knotty questions, and I was never 
able to dispose of them satisfactorily. 

Meanwhile Pepper Whitcomb would scour the 
whole town in search of me. He finally discov- 
ered my retreat, and dropped in on me abruptly 
one afternoon, while I was deep in the cherub 
problem. 

‘‘Look here, Tom Bailey!’ said Pepper, shying 
a piece of clam-shell indignantly at the Hic jacet 
on a neighboring gravestone, ‘‘you are just going 
to the dogs! Can’t you tell a fellow what in thun- 
der ails you, instead of prowling round among the 
tombs like a jolly old vampire?”’ 

‘Pepper,’ I replied, solemnly, ‘“‘don’t ask me. 
All is not well here’’ — touching my breast mys- 
teriously. If I had touched my head instead, I 
should have been nearer the mark. 

_ Pepper stared at me. 
“Earthly happiness,” I continued, ‘is a delu- 


I BECOME A BLIGHTED BEING 245 


sion and a snare. You will never be happy, Pep- 
per, until you are a cherub.” 

Pepper, by the by, would have made an ex- 
cellent cherub, he was so chubby. Having deliv- 
ered myself of these gloomy remarks, I arose lan- 
guidly from the grass and moved away, leaving 
Pepper staring after me in mute astonishment. I 
was Hamlet and Werther and the late Lord Byron 
all in one. 

You will ask what my purpose was in cultivat- 
ing this factitious despondency. None whatever. 
Blighted beings never have any purpose in life 
exceptifig to be as blighted as possible. 

Of course, my present line of business could not 
long escape the eye of Captain Nutter. I don’t 
know if the Captain suspected my attachment 
for Miss Glentworth. He never alluded to it; but 
he watched me. Miss Abigail watched me, Kitty 
Collins watched me, and Sailor Ben watched me. 

‘“‘T can’t make out his signals,’’ I overheard the 
Admiral remark to my grandfather one day. “‘I 
hope he ain’t got no kind of sickness aboard.”’ 

There was something singularly agreeable in 
being an object of so great interest. Sometimes 
I had all I could do to preserve my dejected as- 
pect, it was so pleasant to be miserable. I incline 
to the opinion that people who are melancholy 


246 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


without any particular reason, such as poets, ar- 
tists, and young musicians with long hair, have 
rather an enviable time of it. In a quiet way I 
never enjoyed myself better in my life than when 
I was a Blighted Being. 





bar 


p Mi 
oS 
PAS 
Zi 
‘ 





CHAPTER XX 


IN WHICH I PROVE MYSELF TO BE THE 
GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 
It was not possible for a boy of my temperament 
to be a Blighted Being longer than three consecu- 
tive weeks. 

I was gradually emerging from my self-imposed 
cloud when events took place that greatly assisted 
in restoring me to a more natural frame of mind. 
I awoke from an imaginary trouble to face a real 
one. 

I suppose you don’t know what a financial 
crisis is? I will give you an illustration. 

You are deeply in debt — say to the amount of 
a quarter of a dollar — to the little knickknack 
shop round the corner, where they sell picture- 
papers, spruce-gum, needles, and Malaga raisins. 


248 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


A boy owes you a quarter of a dollar, which he 
promises to pay at a certain time. You are de- 
pending on this quarter to settle accounts with 
the small shop-keeper. The time arrives — and 
the quarter doesn’t. That’s a financial crisis, in 
one sense — in twenty-five senses, if I may say so. 

When this same thing happens, on a grander 
scale, in the mercantile world, it produces what is 
called a panic. One man’s inability to pay his 
debts ruins another man, who, in turn, ruins 
some one else, and so on, until failure after failure 
makes even the richest capitalist tremble. Pub- 
lic confidence is suspended, and the smaller fry of 
merchants are knocked over like tenpins. 

These commercial panics occur periodically, 
after the fashion of comets and earthquakes and 
other disagreeable things. Such a panic took 
place in New Orleans in the year 18—, and my 
father’s banking-house went to pieces in the crash. 

Of a comparatively large fortune nothing re- 
mained after paying his debts excepting a few 
thousand dollars, with which he proposed to re- 
turn North and embark in some less hazardous 
enterprise. In the meantime it was necessary for 
him to stay in New Orleans to wind up the busi- 
ness. 

My grandfather was in some way involved in 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 249 


this failure, and lost, I fancy, a considerable sum 
of money; but he never talked much on the sub- 
ject. He was an unflinching believer in the spilt- 
milk proverb. 

“It can’t be gathered up,” he would say, ‘‘and 
it’s no use crying over it. Pitch into the cow and 
get some more milk, is my motto.” 

The suspension of the banking-house was bad 
enough, but there was an attending circumstance 
that gave us, at Rivermouth, a great deal more 
anxiety. The cholera, which some one predicted 
would visit the country that year, and which, in- 
deed, had made its appearance in a mild form at 
several points along the Mississippi River, had 
broken out with much violence at New Orleans. 

The report that first reached us through the - 
newspapers was meagre and contradictory; many 
people discredited it; but a letter from my mother 
left us no room for doubt. The sickness was in the 
city. The hospitals were filling up, and hundreds 
of the citizens were flying from the stricken place 
by every steamboat. The unsettled state of my 
father’s affairs made it imperative for him to re- 
main at his post; his desertion at that moment 
would have been at the sacrifice of all he had 
saved from the general wreck. 

As he would be detained in New Orleans at 


250 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


least three months, my mother declined to come 
North without him. 

After this we awaited with feverish impatience 
the weekly news that came to us from the South. 
The next letter advised us that my parents were 
well, and that the sickness, so far, had not pene- 
trated to the faubourg, or district, where they 
lived. The following week brought less cheering 
tidings. My father’s business, in consequence of 
the flight of the other partners, would keep him 
in the city beyond the period he had mentioned. 
The family had moved to Pass Christian, a favor- 
ite watering-place on Lake Pontchartrain, near 
New Orleans, where he was able to spend part of 
each week. So the return North was postponed 
indefinitely. 

It was now that the old longing to see my par- 
ents came back to me with irresistible force. I 
knew my grandfather would not listen to the idea 
of my going to New Orleans at such a dangerous 
time, since he had opposed the journey so strongly 
when the same objection did not exist. But I de- 
termined to go nevertheless. 

I think I have mentioned the fact that all the 
male members of our family, on my father’s side 
— as far back as the Middle Ages — have exhib- 
ited in early youth a decided talent for running 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 251 


away. It was an hereditary talent. It ran in the 
blood to run away. I do not pretend to explain 
the peculiarity. I simply admit it. 

It was not my fate to change the prescribed 
order of things. I, too, was to run away, thereby 
proving, if any proof were needed, that I was the 
grandson of my grandfather. I do not hold my- 
self responsible for the step any more than I do 
for the shape of my nose, which is said to be a fac- 
simile of Captain Nutter’s. 

I have frequently noticed how circumstances 
conspire to help a man, or a boy, when he has 
thoroughly resolved on doing a thing. That very 
week the ‘‘ Rivermouth Barnacle”’ printed an ad- 
vertisement that seemed to have been written on 
purpose for me. It read as follows: 


WANTED. —A Few ABLE-BODIED SEAMEN and a 
Cabin-Boy, for the ship Rawlings, now loading for 
New Orleans at Johnson’s Wharf, buston. Apply in 
person, within four days, at the office of Messrs. 
& Co., or on board the Ship. 

How I was to get to New Orleans with only 
$4.62 was a question that had been bothering me. 


This advertisement made it as clear as day. I 





would go as cabin-boy. 

I had taken Pepper into my confidence again; I 
had told him the story of my love for Miss Glent- 
worth, with all its harrowing details; and now con- 


252 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ceived it judicious to confide in him the change 
about to take place in my life, so that, if the Raw- 
lings went down in a gale, my friends might have 
the limited satisfaction of knowing what had 
become of me. 

Pepper shook his head discouragingly, and 
sought in every way to dissuade me from the step. 
He drew a disenchanting picture of the existence 
of a cabin-boy, whose constant duty (according 
to Pepper) was to have dishes broken over his 
head whenever the captain or the mate chanced 
to be out of humor, which was mostly all the time. 
But nothing Pepper said could turn me a hair’s- 
breadth from my purpose. 

I had little time to spare, for the advertisement 
stated explicitly that applications were to be made 
in person within four days. I trembled to think of 
the bare possibility of some other boy snapping up 
that desirable situation. 

It was on Monday that I stumbled upon the 
advertisement. On Tuesday my preparations 
were completed. My baggage — consisting of 
four shirts, half a dozen collars, a piece of shoe- 
maker’s wax (Heaven knows what for!) and seven 
stockings, wrapped in a silk handkerchief — lay 
hidden under a loose plank of the stable floor, 
This was my point of departure, 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 253 


My plan was to take the last train for Boston, 
in order to prevent the possibility of immediate 
pursuit, if any should be attempted. The train 
left at 4 P.M. 

I ate no breakfast and little dinner that day. I 
avoided the Captain’s eye, and wouldn’t have 
looked Miss Abigail or Kitty in the face for the 
wealth of the Indies. 

When it was time to start for the station I re- 
tired quietly to the stable and uncovered my bun- 
dle. I lingered a moment to kiss the white star on 
Gypsy’s forehead, and was nearly unmanned when 
the little animal returned the caress by lapping 
my cheek. Twice I went back and patted her. 

On reaching the station I purchased my ticket 
with a bravado air that ought to have aroused the 
suspicion of the ticket-master, and hurried to the 
car, where I sat fidgeting until the train shot out 
into the broad daylight. 

Then I drew a long breath and looked about 
me. The first object that saluted my sight was 
Sailor Ben, four or five seats behind me, reading 
the ‘‘ Rivermouth Barnacle”’! 

Reading was not an easy art to Sailor Ben; he 
grappled with the sense of a paragraph as if it 
were a polar-bear, and generally got the worst of 
it. On the present occasion he was having a hard 


254 \THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


struggle, judging by the way he worked his mouth 
and rolled his eyes. He had evidently not seen me. 
But what was he doing on the Boston train? 

Without lingering to solve the question, I stole 
gently from my seat and passed into the forward 
car. 

This was very awkward, having the Admiral on 
board. I couldn’t understand it at all. Could it 
be possible that the old boy had got tired of land 
and was running away to sea himself? That was 
too absurd. I glanced nervously towards the car 
door now and then, half expecting to see him 
come after me. 

We had passed one or two way-stations, and I 
had quieted down a good deal, when I began to 
feel as if somebody was looking steadily at the 
back of my head. I turned round involuntarily, 
and there was Sailor Ben again, at the farther end 
of the car, wrestling with the ‘“‘ Rivermouth Bar- 
nacle’’ as before. 

' I began to grow very uncomfortable indeed. 
Was it by design or chance that he thus dogged 
my steps? If he was aware of my presence, why 
didn’t he speak to me at once? Why did he steal 
round, making no sign, like a particularly un- 
pleasant phantom? Maybe it wasn’t Sailor Ben. 
I peeped at him slyly. There was no mistaking 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 255 


that tanned, genial phiz of his. Very odd he 
didn’t see me! 

Literature, even in the mild form of a country 
newspaper, always had the effect of poppies on 
the Admiral. When I stole another glance in his 
direction his hat was tilted over his right eye in 
the most dissolute style, and the ‘‘ Rivermouth 
Barnacle”’ lay in a confused heap beside him. He 
had succumbed. He was fast asleep. If he woulc 
only keep asleep until we reached our destination! 

By and by I discovered that the rear car had 
been detached from the train at the last stopping- 
place. This accounted satisfactorily for Sailor 
Ben’s singular movements, and considerably 
calmed my fears. Nevertheless, I did not like the 
aspect of things. 

The Admiral continued to snooze like a good 
fellow, and was snoring melodiously as we glided 
at a slackened pace over a bridge and inte 
Boston. ; 

I grasped my pilgrim’s bundle, and, hurrying 
out of the car, dashed up the first street that pre- 
sented itself. 

It was a narrow, noisy, zigzag street, crowded 
with trucks and obstructed with bales and boxes 
of merchandise. I didn’t pause to breathe until 
I had placed a respectable distance between me 


256 THE STORY.OF A BAD BOY 


and the railway station. By this time it was 
nearly twilight. 

I had got into the region of dwelling-houses, and 
was about to seat myself on a doorstep to rest, 
when, lo! there was the Admiral trundling along 
on the opposite sidewalk, under a full spread of 
canvas, as he would have expressed it. 

I was off again in an instant at a rapid pace: but 
in spite of all I could do he held his own without 
any perceptible exertion. He had a very ugly gait 
to get away from, the Admiral. I didn’t dare torun, 
for fear of being mistaken for a thief, a suspicion 
which my bundle would naturally lend color to. 

I pushed ahead, however, at a brisk trot, and 
must have got over one or two miles — my pur- 
suer neither gaining nor losing ground —when I 
concluded to surrender at discretion. I saw that 
Sailor Ben was determined to have me, and, know- 
ing my man, I knew that escape was highly im- 
probable. 

So I turned round and waited for him to catch 
up with me, which he did in a few seconds, looking 
rather sheepish at first. 

‘Sailor Ben,” said I, severely, ‘‘do I under- 
stand that you are dogging my steps?” 

“Well, little messmate,’’ replied the Admiral, 
rubbing his nose, which he always did when he 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 257 


was disconcerted, ‘‘I am kind o’ followin’ in your 
wake.”’ 

“Under orders?” . 

“Under orders.” 

“Under the Captain’s orders?”’ 

“Sure-ly.”’ 

‘“‘In other words, my grandfather has sent you 
to fetch me back to Rivermouth?”’ 

““That’s about it,” said the Admiral, with a 
burst of frankness. 

‘‘And I must go with you whether I want to or 
not?” 

“The Capen’s very identical words!”’ 

There was nothing to be done. [ bit my lips 
with suppressed anger, and signified that I was at 
his disposal, since I couldn’t help it. The impres- 
sion was very strong in my mind that the Admiral 
wouldn’t hesitate to put me in irons if I showed 
signs of mutiny. 

It was too late to return to Rivermouth that 
night — a fact which I communicated to the old 
boy sullenly, inquiring at the same time what he 
proposed to do about it. 

He said we would cruise about for some rations, 
and then make a night of it. I didn’t condescend 
to reply, though I hailed the suggestion of some- 
thing to eat with inward enthusiasm, for I had 


258 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


not taken enough food that day to keep life in a 
canary. 

We wandered back to the railway station, in the 
waiting-room of which was a kind of restaurant 
presided over by a severe-looking young lady. 
Here we had a cup of coffee apiece, several tough 
doughnuts, and some blocks of venerable sponge- 
cake. The young lady who attended on us, what- 
ever her age was then, must have been a mere 
child when that sponge-cake was made. 

The Admiral’s acquaintance with Boston ho- 
tels was slight; but he knew of a quiet lodging- 
house near by, much patronized by sea-captains, 
and kept by a former friend of his. 

In this house, which had seen its best days, we 
were accommodated with a mouldy chamber con- 
taining two cot-beds, two chairs, and a cracked 
pitcher on a washstand. The mantel-shelf was 
ornamented with three big pink conch-shells, re- 
sembling pieces of petrified liver; and over these 
hung a cheap lurid print, in which a United States 
sloop-of-war was giving a British frigate particu- 
lar fits. It is very strange how our own ships never 
seem to suffer any in these terrible engagements, 
It shows what a nation we are. 

An oil-lamp on a deal-table cast a dismal glare 
over the apartment, which was cheerless in the 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 25g 


extreme. I thought of our sitting-room at home, 
with its flowery wall-paper and gay curtains and 
soft lounges; I saw Major Elkanah Nutter (my 
grandfather’s father) in powdered wig and Fed- 
eral uniform, looking down benevolently from his 
gilt frame between the bookcases; I pictured the 
Captain and Miss Abigail sitting at the cosey 
round table in the moon-like glow of the astral 
lamp; and then I fell to wondering how they would 
receive me when I came back. I wondered if the 
Prodigal Son had any idea that his father was 
going to kill the fatted calf for him, and how he 
felt about it, on the whole. 

Though I was very low in spirits, I put on a 
bold front to Sailor Ben, you will understand. To 
be caught and caged in this manner was a fright- 
ful shock to my vanity. He tried to draw me into 
conversation; but I answered in icy monosyllables. 
He again suggested we should make a night of it, 
and hinted broadly that he was game for any 
amount of riotous dissipation, even to the extent 
of going to see a play if I wanted to. I declined 
haughtily. I was dying to go. | 

He then threw out a feeler on the subject of 
dominoes and checkers, and observed in a general 
way that “seven up” was a capital game; but I 
repulsed him at every point. 


260 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


I saw that the Admiral was beginning to feel 
hurt by my systematic coldness. We had always 
been such hearty friends until now. It was too 
bad of me to fret that tender, honest old heart 
even for an hour. I really did love the ancient 
boy, and when, in a disconsolate way, he ordered 
up a pitcher of beer, I unbent so far as to partake 
of some in a teacup. He recovered his Spirits in- 
stantly, and took out his cuddy clay pipe for a 
smoke. 

Between the beer and the soothing fragrance of 
the navy-plug, I fell into a pleasanter mood my- 
self, and, it being too late now to go to the theatre, 
I condescended to say — addressing the north- 
west corner of the ceiling — that “seven up”’ was 
a capital game. Upon this hint the Admiral dis- 
appeared, and returned shortly with a very dirty 
pack of cards. 

As we played, with varying fortunes, by the 
flickering flame of the lamp, he sipped his beer 
and became communicative. He seemed im- 
mensely tickled by the fact that I had come to 
Boston. It leaked out presently that he and the 
Captain had had a wager on the subject. 

The discovery of my plans and who had dis- 
covered them were points on which the Admiral 
refused to throw any light. They had been dis- 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 261 


covered, however, and the Captain had laughed 
at the idea of my running away. Sailor Ben, on 
the contrary, had stoutly contended that I meant 
to slip cable and be off. Whereupon the Captain 
offered to bet him a dollar that I wouldn’t go. 
And it was partly on account of this wager that 
Sailor Ben refrained from capturing me when he 
might have done so at the start. 

Now, as the fare to and from Boston, with the 
lodging expenses, would cost him at least five dol- 
lars, I didn’t see what he gained by winning the 
wager. The Admiral rubbed his nose violently 
when this view of the case presented itself. 

I asked him why he didn’t take me from the 
train at the first stopping-place and return to 
Rivermouth by the down train at 4.30. He ex- 
plained: having purchased a ticket for Boston, 
he considered himself bound to the owners (the 
stockholders of the road) to fulfil his part of the 
contract! To use his own words, he had “shipped 
for the viage.”’ 

This struck me as being so deliciously funny, 
that after I was in bed and the light was out, I 
couldn’t help laughing aloud once or twice. I sup- 
pose the Admiral must have thought I was medi- 
tating another escape, for he made _ periodical 
visits to my bed throughout the night, satisfying 


262 THE STORY OF A (BADRBOR 


himself by kneading me all over that I hadn’t 
evaporated. 

I was all there the next morning, when Sailor 
Ben half awakened me by shouting merrily, “All 
hands on deck!’’ The words rang in my ears like 
a part of my own dream, for I was at that instant 
climbing up the side of the Rawlings to offer my- 
self as cabin-boy. 

The Admiral was obliged to shake me roughly 
two or three times before he could detach me from 
the dream. I opened my eyes with effort, and 
stared stupidly round the room. Bit by bit my 
real situation dawned on me. What a sickening 
sensation that is, when one is in trouble, to wake 
up feeling free for a moment, and then to find yes- 
terday’s sorrow all ready to go on again! 

‘Well, little messmate, how fares it?’”’ 

I was too much depressed to reply. The thought 
of returning to Rivermouth chilled me. How 
could I face Captain Nutter, to say nothing of 
Miss Abigail and Kitty? How the Temple Gram- 
mar School boys would look at me! How Conway 
and Seth Rodgers would exult over my mortifica- 
tion! And what if the Reverend Wibird Hawkins 
should allude to me in his next Sunday’s sermon? 

Sailor Ben was wise in keeping an eye on me, 
for after these thoughts took possession of my 


‘ 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 263 


mind, I wanted only the opportunity to give him 
the slip. 

The keeper of the lodgings did not supply meals 
to his guests; so we breakfasted at a small chop- 
house in a crooked street on our way to the cars. 
The city was not astir yet, and looked glum and 
careworn in the damp morning atmosphere. 

Here and there as we passed along was a sharp- 
faced shop-boy taking down shutters; and now 
and then we met a seedy man who had evidently 
spent the night in a doorway. Such early birds 
and a few laborers with their tin kettles were the 
only signs of life to be seen until we came to the 
station, where I insisted on paying for my own 
ticket. I didn’t relish being conveyed from place 
to place, like a felon changing prisons, at some- 
body else’s expense. 

On entering the car I sunk into a seat next the 
window, and Sailor Ben deposited himself beside 
me, cutting off all chance of escape. 

The car filled up soon after this, and I wondered 
if there was anything in my mien that would lead 
the other passengers to suspect I was a boy who 
had run away and was being brought back. 

A man in front of us — he was near-sighted, as 
I discovered later by his reading a guide-book 
with his nose — brought the blood to my cheeks 


264 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


by turning round and peering at me steadily. I 
rubbed a clear spot on the cloudy window-glass 
at my elbow, and looked out to avoid him. 

There, in the travellers’ room, was the severe- 
looking young lady piling up her blocks of sponge 
cake in alluring pyramids and industriously in- 
trenching herself behind a breastwork of squash 
pie. I saw with cynical pleasure numerous victims 
walk up to the counter and recklessly sow the 
seeds of death in their constitutions by eating 
her doughnuts. I had got quite interested in her, 
when the whistle sounded and the train began to 
move. 

The Admiral and I did not talk much on the jour- 
ney. I stared out of the window most of the time, 
speculating as to the probable nature of the recep- 
tion in store for me at the terminus of the road. 

What would the Captain say? and Mr. Grim- 
shaw, what would he do about it? Then | thought 
of Pepper Whitcomb. Dire was the vengeance I 
meant to wreak on Pepper, for who but he had 
betrayed me? Pepper alone had been the reposi- 
tory of my secret — perfidious Pepper! 

As we left station after station behind us, I felt 
less and less like encountering the members of our 
family. Sailor Ben fathomed what was passing in 
my mind, for he leaned over and said: 


GRANDSON OF MY GRANDFATHER 265 


‘“‘T don’t think as the Capen will bear down very 
hard on you.” 

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t the fear of any 
physical punishment that might be inflicted; it 
was a sense of my own folly that was creeping 
over me; for during the long, silent ride I had ex- 
amined my conduct from every stand-point, and 
there was no view I could take of myself in which 
I did not look like a very foolish person, indeed. 

As we came within sight of the spires of River- 
mouth, I wouldn’t have cared if the up train, 
which met us outside the town, had run into us 
and ended me. 

Contrary to my expectation and dread, the Cap- 
tain was not visible when we stepped from the 
cars. Sailor Ben glanced among the crowd of 
faces, apparently looking for him too. Conway 
was there — he was always hanging about the 
station — and if he had intimated in any way 
that he knew of my disgrace and enjoyed it, I 
should have walked into him, I am certain. 

But this defiant feeling entirely deserted me by 
the time we reached the Nutter House. The Cap- 
tain himself opened the door. 

‘‘Come on board, sir,’’ said Sailor Ben, scrap- 
ing his left foot and touching his hat sea-fashion. 

My grandfather nodded to Sailor Ben, some- 


266 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


what coldly I thought, and much to my astonish- 
ment kindly took me by the hand. 

I was unprepared for this, and the tears, which 
no amount of severity would have wrung from me, 
welled up to my eyes. 

The expression of my grandfather’s face, as I 
glanced at it hastily, was grave and gentle; there 
was nothing in it of anger or reproof. I followed 
him into the sitting-room, and, obeying a motion 
of his hand, seated myself on the sofa. He re- 
mained standing by the round table for a moment, 
lost in thought, then leaned over and picked up a 
letter. 

It was a letter with a great black seal. 





CHAPTER XXI 
IN WHICH I LEAVE RIVERMOUTH 


A LETTER with a great black seal! 

I knew then what had happened as well as I 
know it now. But which was it, father or mother? 
I do not like to look back to the agony and sus- 
pense of that moment. 

My father had died at New Orleans during one 
of his weekly visits to the city. The letter bearing 
these tidings had reached Rivermouth the eve- 
ning of my flight — had passed me on the road by 
the down train. 

I must turn back for a moment to that eventful 
evening. When I failed to make my appearance 
at supper, the Captain began to suspect that I had 
really started on my wild tour southward —a 
conjecture which Sailor Ben’s absence helped to 
confirm. I had evidently got off by the train and 
Sailor Ben had followed me. 

There was no telegraphic communication be- 
tween Boston and Rivermouth in those days; so 
my grandfather could do nothing but await the 
result. Even if there had been another mail to 


268 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


Boston, he could not have availed himself of it, 
not knowing how to address a message to the fugi- 
tives. The post-office was naturally the last place 
either I or the Admiral would think of visiting. 

My grandfather, however, was too full of trou- 
ble to allow this to add to his distress. He knew 
that the faithful old sailor would not let me come 
to any harm, and even if I had managed for the 
time being to elude him, was sure to bring me 
back sooner or later. 

Our return, therefore, by the first train on the 
following day did not surprise him. 

I was greatly puzzled, as I have said, by the gen- 
tle manner of his reception; but when we were 
alone together in the sitting-room, and he began 
slowly to unfold the letter, I understood it all. I 
caught a sight of my mother’s handwriting in the 
superscription, and there was nothing left to tell 
me. 

My grandfather held the letter a few seconds 
irresolutely, and then commenced reading it 
aloud; but he could get no further than the date. 

‘“‘T can’t read it, Tom,”’ said the old gentleman, 
breaking down. “I thought I could.” 

He handed it to me. I took the letter mechan- 
ically, and hurried away with it to my little room, 
where I had passed so many happy hours. 


I LEAVE RIVERMOUTH 269 


The week that followed the receipt of this letter 
is nearly a blank in my memory. I remember 
that the days appeared endless; that at times I 
could not realize the misfortune that had befallen 
us, and my heart upbraided me for not feeling a 
deeper grief; that a full sense of my loss would 
now and then sweep over me like an inspiration, 
and I would steal away to my chamber or wander 
forlornly about the gardens. I remember this, but 
little more. 

As the days went by my first grief subsided, and 
in its place grew up a want which I have experi- 
enced at every step in life from boyhood to man- 
hood. Often, even now, after all these years, 
when I see a lad of twelve or fourteen walking by 
his father’s side, and glancing merrily up at his 
face, I turn and look after them, and am conscious 
that I have missed companionship most sweet and 
sacred. 

I shall not dwell on this portion of my story. 
There were many tranquil, pleasant hours in store 
for me at that period, and I prefer to turn to them. 


One evening the Captain came smiling into the 
sitting-room with an open letter in his hand. My 
mother had arrived at New York, and would be 
with us the next day. For the first time in weeks 


270 THE STORY OF, A’ BADSEGS 


— years, it seemed to me — something of the old 
cheerfulness mingled with our conversation round 
the evening lamp. I was to go to Boston with the 
Captain to meet her and bring her home. I need 
not describe that meeting. With my mother’s 
hand in mine once more, all the long years we had 
been parted appeared like a dream. Very dear to 
me was the sight of that slender, pale woman pass- 
ing from room to room, and lending a patient 
grace and beauty to the saddened life of the old 
house. 

Everything was changed with us now. There 
were consultations with lawyers, and signing of 
papers, and correspondence; for my father’s affairs 
had been left in great confusion. And when these 
were settled, the evenings were not long enough 
for us to hear all my mother had to tell of the 
scenes she had passed through in the ill-fated city. 

Then there were old times to talk over, full of 
reminiscences of Aunt Chloe and little Black Sam. 
Little Black Sam, by the by, had been taken by 
his master from my father’s service ten months 
previously, and put on a sugar-plantation near 
Baton Rouge. Not relishing the change, Sam had 
run away, and by some mysterious agency got 
into Canada, from which place he had sent back 
several indecorous messages to his late owner. 


I LEAVE RIVERMOUTH 271 


Aunt Chloe was still in New Orleans, employed 
as nurse in one of the cholera hospital wards, and 
the Desmoulins, near neighbors of ours, had pur- 
chased the pretty stone house among the orange- 
trees. 

How all these simple details interested me will 
be readily understood by any boy who has been 
long absent from home. 

I was sorry when it became necessary to discuss 
questions more nearly affecting myself. I had 
been removed from school temporarily, but it was 
decided, after much consideration, that I should 
not return, the decision being left, in a manner, in 
my own hands. 

The Captain wished to carry out his son’s in- 
tention and send me to college, for which I was 
nearly fitted; but our means did not admit of this. 
The Captain, too, could ill afford to bear the ex- 
pense, for his losses by the failure of the New Or- 
leans business had been heavy. Yet he insisted 
on the plan, not seeing clearly what other disposal 
to make of me. 

In the midst of our discussions a letter came 
from my Uncle Snow, a merchant in New York, 
generously offering me a place in his counting- 
house. The case resolved itself into this: If I went 
to college, I should have to be dependent on Cap- 


272 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


tain Nutter for several years, and at the end of 
the collegiate course would have no settled pro- 
fession. If I accepted my uncle’s offer, I might 
hope to work my way to independence without 
loss of time. It was hard to give up the long-cher- 
ished dream of being a Harvard boy; but I gave 
it up. 

The decision once made, it was Uncle Snow’s 
wish that I should enter his counting-house im- 
mediately. The cause of my good uncle’s haste 
was this — he was afraid that I would turn out to 
be a poet before he could make a merchant of me. 
His fears were based upon the fact that I had pub. 
lished in the ‘‘ Rivermouth Barnacle’’ some verses 
addressed in a familiar manner ‘“‘To the Moon.” 
Now, the idea of a boy, with his living to get, plac- 
ing himself in communication with the Moon, 
struck the mercantile mind as monstrous. It was 
not only a bad investment, it was lunacy. 

We adopted Uncle Snow’s views so far as to ac- 
cede to his proposition forthwith. My mother, I 
neglected to say, was also to reside in New York. 

I shall not draw a picture of Pepper Whitcomb’s 
disgust when the news was imparted to him, nor 
attempt to paint Sailor Ben’s distress at the pros- 
pect of losing his little messmate. 

In the excitement of preparing for the journey 


| LEAVE RIVERMOUTH 273 


I didn’t feel any very deep regret myself. But 
when the moment came for leaving, and I saw my 
small trunk lashed up behind the carriage, then 
the pleasantness of the old life and a vague dread 
of the new came over me, and a mist filled my 
eyes, shutting out the group of schoolfellows, in- 
cluding all the members of the Centipede Club, 
who had come down to the house to see me off. 

As the carriage swept round the corner, I leaned 
out of the window to take a last look at Sailor 
Ben’s cottage, and there was the Admiral’s flag 
flying at half-mast. 

So I left Rivermouth, little dreaming that I was 
not to see the old place again for many and many 
a year. 





CHAPTER XXII 
EXEUNT OMNES 


Wir the close of my school-days at Rivermouth 
this modest chronicle ends. 

The new life upon which I entered, the new 
friends and foes I encountered on the road, and 
what I did and what I did not, are matters that do 
not come within the scope of these pages. But 
before I write Finis to the record as it stands, be- 
fore I leave it — feeling as if I were once more go- 
ing away from my boyhood — I have a word or 
two to say concerning a few of the personages 
who have figured in the story, if you will allow me 
to call Gypsy a personage. 

I am sure that the reader who has followed me 
thus far will be willing to hear what became of 
her, and Sailor Ben and Miss Abigail and the Cap- 
tain. ; 

First about Gypsy. A month after my depar- 
ture from Rivermouth the Captain informed me 
by letter that he had parted with the little mare, 
according to agreement. She had been sold to the 
ring-master of a travelling circus (I had stipulated 


EXEUNT OMNES 275 


on this disposal of her), and was about to set out 
on her travels. She did not disappoint my glowing 
anticipations, but became quite a celebrity in her 
way — by dancing the polka to slow music on a 
pine-board ball-room constructed for the purpose. 
I chanced once, a long while afterwards, to be 
in a country town where her troupe was giving 
exhibitions; I even read the gaudily illumined 
show-bill, setting forth the accomplishments of 


She fac-famed Arabian Scich-Lony 
ZULEIKA!! 


FORMERLY OWNED BY 
THE PRINCE SHAZ-ZAMAN OF DAMASCUS 


— but failed to recognize my dear little Mustang 
girl behind those high-sounding titles, and so, alas! 
did not attend the performance. I hope all the 
praises she received and all the spangled trap- 
pings she wore did not spoil her; but I am afraid 
they did, for she was always over much given to 
the vanities of this world. 

Miss Abigail regulated the domestic destinies 
of my grandfather’s household until the day of her 
‘death, which Dr. Theophilus Tredick solemnly 
averred was hastened by the inveterate habit she 
had contracted of swallowing unknown quanti- 


276 THE STORY OF A BAD BOY 


ties of hot-drops whenever she fancied herself 
out of sorts. Eighty-seven empty phials were 
found in a bonnet-box on a shelf in her bedroom 
closet. 

The old house became very lonely when the fam- 
ily got reduced to Captain Nutter and Kitty; and 
when Kitty passed away, my grandfather divided 
his time between Rivermouth and New York. 

Sailor Ben did not long survive his little Irish 
lass, as he always fondly called her. At his demise, 
which took place about six years since, he left his 
property in trust to the managers of a “‘ Home for 
Aged Mariners.”’ In his will, which was a very 
whimsical document — written by himself, and 
worded with much shrewdness, too — he warned 
the Trustees that when he got “‘aloft”’ he intended 
to keep his ‘“‘weather eye’ on them, and should 
send ‘‘a speritual shot across their bows” and 
bring them to, if they didn’t treat the Aged Mari- 
ners handsomely. 

He also expressed a wish to have his body 
stitched up in a shotted hammock and dropped 
into the harbor; but as he did not strenuously in- 
sist on this, and as it was not in accordance with 
my grandfather’s preconceived notions of Chris- 
tian burial, the Admiral was laid to rest beside 
Kitty, in the Old South Burying-Ground, with an 


EXEUNT OMNES 277 


anchor that would have delighted him neatly 
carved on his headstone. 

I am sorry the fire has gone out in the old ship’s 
stove in that sky-blue cottage at the head of the 
wharf; I am sorry they have taken down the flag- 
staff and painted over the funny port-holes; for I 
loved the old cabin as it was. They might have let 
it alone! 

For several months after leaving Rivermouth 
I carried on a voluminous correspondence with 
Pepper Whitcomb; but it gradually dwindled 
down to a single letter a month, and then to none 
at all. But while he remained at the Temple 
Grammar School he kept me advised of the cur- 
rent gossip of the town and the doings of the Cen- 
tipedes. 

As one by one the boys left the academy — 
Adams, Harris, Marden, Blake, and Langdon — 
to seek their fortunes elsewhere, there was less to 
interest me in the old seaport; and when Pepper 
himself went to Philadelphia to read law, I had no 
one to give me an inkling of what was going on. 

There wasn’t much to go on, to be sure. Great 
events no longer considered it worth their while 
to honor so quiet a place. One Fourth of July the 
Temple Grammar School burnt down — set on 
fire, it was supposed, by an eccentric squib that 


278 THE STORY OFA BAD TEGs 


was seen to bolt into an upper window — and 
Mr. Grimshaw retired from public life, married, 
‘‘and lived happily ever after,’’ as the story-books 
say. 

The Widow Conway, I am able to state, did not 
succeed in enslaving Mr. Meeks, the apothecary, 
who united himself cldndestinely to one of Miss 
Dorothy Gibbs’s young ladies, and lost the pat- 
ronage of Primrose Hall in consequence. 

Young Conway went into the grocery business 
with his ancient chum, Rodgers — RODGERS & 
Conway! I read the sign only last summer when 
I was down in Rivermouth, and had half a mind 
to pop into the shop and shake hands with him, 
and ask him if he wanted to fight. I contented 
myself, however, with flattening my nose against 
his dingy shop-window, and beheld Conway, in 
red whiskers and blue overalls, weighing out sugar 
for a customer — giving him short weight, I’ll bet 
anything! 

I have reserved my pleasantest word for the 
last. It is touching the Captain. The Captain is 
still hale and rosy, and if he doesn’t relate his ex- 
ploit in the War of 1812 as spiritedly as he used to, 
he makes up by relating it more frequently and 
telling it differently every time! He passes his 
winters in New York and his summers in the Nut- 


EXEUNT OMNES 279 


ter House, which threatens to prove a hard nut 
for the destructive gentleman with the scythe 
and the hour-glass, for the seaward gable has not 
yielded a clapboard to the east-wind these twenty 
years. The Captain has now become the Oldest 
Inhabitant in Rivermouth, and so I don’t laugh 
at the Oldest Inhabitant any more, but pray in 
my heart that he may occupy the post of nea 
for half a century to come! 

So ends the Story of a Bad Boy — but not such 
a very bad boy, as I told you to begin with. 


THE END 












my 7 May! LM 


el Le Nae ah PS 
PRG SIR SOON a 

























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